


Mistakes

by MileyCyprus_Hill



Series: Mistakes [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption 2, rdr2 - Fandom
Genre: 10 years before in-game start, Angst, Childbirth, F/M, Guilt, Love, Love Triangle, Mary Gillis, Mary Linton - Freeform, Mentions of Suicide, NSFW, Panic Attack, Papa Arthur Morgan, RDR2, Smut, Trigger Warnings, Unplanned Pregnancy, Young Arthur Morgan, arthur morgan - Freeform, mature - Freeform, pre blackwater, red dead redemption 2 - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:33:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22218607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MileyCyprus_Hill/pseuds/MileyCyprus_Hill
Summary: Pre-Blackwater by at least 10 years. Arthur is 26 years old, reader is 20, and John Marston is 16. Arthur has just broken off his engagement with Mary. Instead of the one-night stand with Eliza, Arthur sleeps with the reader with similar consequences.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Reader
Series: Mistakes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1599412
Comments: 67
Kudos: 245





	1. Chapter 1

# Mistakes

You’ve been a part of the gang shortly after John joined in. Age wise, you’re in between John and Arthur and are really good friends with both of them. Perhaps more so with Arthur.

You come back to your camp outside Blackwater after a successful hunt. You were away for about 12 hours - shorter than usual - as the antelope are flourishing in your area. 

The gang is fairly small in numbers, but very close with each other. You treat Dutch and Hosea like your adoptive fathers, and you seem to be the only one Ms. Grimshaw truly gets along with. She’s still hard on you when it comes to chores. But whenever there’s lady issues, you can trust her to be kind and understanding.

Everyone seems to be settled in camp, except one person who seems to be missing. You look around and don’t see Arthur anywhere.

It’s not uncommon for him to be gone on a job or a lead, but he’s been gone for at least three days. Normally, he calls on you to go with him on long trips for support. Whether that’s moral support, or just another helping hand to carry robbed goods. He knows he can trust you. 

As you look, your eyes spot John carrying hay over to the horses at the corner of camp. You quickly walk over to him as he drops the bale.

“Hey John.”

“Hey, (Y/N).”

You don’t beat around the bush.

“Hey, where’s Arthur been? I’ve barely seen him these past few days.”

“I saw him yesterday coming through. You must’ve been gone ‘cause he didn’t stay long.” John answers. “I guess he only stopped by to grab some things and then he ran off.” John points over to Arthur’s tent as he speaks. “He looked in such a sour mood. So I didn’t say nothin’.”

“He’s always in a sour mood, isn’t he?” You joke.

John laughs. You two were like twins, despite you having a couple years over him. Arthur was always the big brother who loved pestering the both of you. As the three of you grew together, the closer you became in different ways. With John, it turned from an intense sibling rivalry to a close brother/sister bond. With Arthur, it turned from relentless fighting to a budding romance - at least on one end it felt that way.

“Ask Hosea…” John says. He must have noticed the worry on your face. 

_Was it that obvious?_

“…I saw Arthur talking to him before he ran off.” John continues  
.  
You reply, “Thanks,” and slap his shoulder gently. John smacks your hand away playfully. The two of you snicker as you separate. You walk over to Hosea.

Hosea must’ve heard you walking over to him, as he keeps his nose in his newspaper, “(Y/N)! How’s things?”

“Alright,” you answer. Plopping down on a chair in front of his table. Resting your elbows on the table, you fidget with your fingernails.  
There’s an uncomfortable silence.

Hosea, being the ever-loving parent, doesn’t need to look up from his paper to sense your worry. You hated that he could see right through you at times. You couldn’t keep anything from your adopted father.

“Something on your mind, dear?” Hosea asks.

You take a breath, trying your best to hide your concern for Arthur. You didn’t want to come across as clingy, but unbeknownst to you, Hosea already knew about your feelings for Arthur.

“Just…you seen Arthur anywhere?” you answer nervously.

Hosea finally drops a corner of his newspaper to peer over at you. An eyebrow raised. It drove you crazy seeing him look at you that way, like he already knows what you’re about to say.

But then his expression changes. He folds his newspaper and sets it neatly on the table. His eyebrows now furrowed and his mouth turned to a slight frown.

Hosea sighs, “Figured you should know by now that things are done between him and that Mary Gillis.”

You immediately sit up straight at this news. Your eyes have gone wide. Your mouth drops open to ask, but Hosea already answers.

“Yep.” Hosea sighs again. “Guess she finally came to her senses…Or perhaps daddy made up her mind for her.”

Hosea reaches into his pocket to grab his pipe and fills it with tobacco.

“Seems our little Romeo and Juliet are no more,” he says.

He looks out to the horizon as he speaks. You can tell he truly feels bad for them. Not everyone may have agreed with their relationship, but Hosea only wished for Arthur’s happiness. Much like you did.

Your heart broke for Arthur. You were jealous of Mary, but you didn’t despise her. You just hoped she could give Arthur the happiness he deserved.  
You often hoped you could give him that happiness.

“Is…he ok?” You finally ask.

Hosea looks to you fondly, “Well, for someone who’s just had their heart broken…I’d guess he’s alright. Just needs some time to get through it.”

“Where is he now?” you ask. You know having your heart broken can cause you to make some foolish decisions. You just wanted to make sure Arthur wouldn’t do anything he’d later regret. Much like he probably regrets his prior engagement to Mary right now.

“He told me he’s camping on his own nearby…Said he wanted to be alone for a little while.” Hosea stares at you as he utters that last sentence, hoping to emphasize it for you.

You scoff a little and shake your head.

“Please,” you say. “I just wanna see if he’s okay.”

Hosea lights his pipe and studies you across the table.

“He went North,” he finally says, pointing his pipe in that direction. “Not too far out. Several miles, I’d say.”

“Thanks,” you say as you rise to your feet.

You turn your back and begin to walk away when Hosea calls.

“You’re a good friend, (Y/N).”

You turn to Hosea, and he gives you a wink. You smirk and start walking over to the horses to saddle your own. John has already finished unloading the last bale for the horses and is resting under a nearby tree.

“Where’you goin’ now?” he asks, tiredly. For a scrawny young man, he sure tires easily from physical labor. But he still works hard, unlike Uncle. 

“Nowhere,” you lie. Heaving your saddle and horse blanket onto your steed. 

Your horse is a beautiful black thoroughbred you stole from a rich stable owner, one who trains racehorses. Your horse was supposed to be the man’s prize stud, but his temperament was so unruly, he was gelded and trained to run the tracks. That horse never made it to the tracks though because of you. You wanted him. After successfully stealing him with Arthur’s help, you decided to name him König. 

Arthur wouldn’t stop making fun of you for that.

“Kahn-nig?” Arthur reads the etching on his leather halter, “What kinda name is that?”

“It’s ‘coo-nic’ you dummy,” you laugh at him, lifting your chin and tapping your throat, “nic, in the back of the throat. ‘ _nich_ ’. ”

“Kooo-nick…Well, what the hell is that?” Arthur asks. 

You laugh again, “It’s German. It means ‘king.’ My grandma only spoke German. Remember?”

“Yeah, I remember. ‘Member her being a wild, crab-ass of a woman too,” Arthur drawls.

You slap his shoulder with the back of your hand as he laughs boisterously, yourself hiding a smile. 

You’re jogged back from your memories as John gently pushes you. 

“Liar,” John calls you, smirking.

You try to smirk back and jeer at him in response, but you’re distracted. Your thoughts are only on Arthur.

“Helloooo…..(Y/N)! What’s with you?” 

You cinch the girth of the saddle and look to John, “Sorry. I- I’m just thinkin’.”

“ ‘bout what?” he asks. Your horse is saddled and bridled as you walk to your tent to grab the rest of your things. John walks alongside you. 

“Arthur…’m gonna go see if he’s alright,” you respond. 

John stops with a annoyed groan and looks up to the sky, rolling his eyes. 

“Let him go, Y/N. He’s just out there brooding as usual. He’ll be fine.” he states. “He’s probably in a mood ‘cause of Mary.” 

“Well that’s just it,” you look to him as you grab your bedroll and supplies from your tent. “It is about Mary. And I know if someone broke my heart, I’d want someone to talk to. I got you, but… Arthur doesn’t have anyone else.”

John sighs in defeat, “Whatever.”

You walk past him towards König, putting on your satchel.

“Just give him one of these for me,” John punches you hard in the arm.

“Ow!” you yell, rubbing your arm.

“Tell him I said ‘Hi’. ” John laughs and jogs away from your retaliation punch.

“Asshole!” you yell to him, your arm still sore. You hear his wheezy laugh in the distance and turn back towards your horse.  
It only takes a couple of hours to find Arthur’s little camp. The sun sets and the sky is painted in strokes of beautiful pink, orange, and purple ribbons. You look above the tips of the emerald trees and view the clouds reflecting the wonderful hues. It makes you feel so small looking at the vast sky. Taking in the scenery, you trot König towards the low plume of smoke from Arthur’s fire, hidden within a patch of trees and shrubs.

At the sound of hoofbeats, Arthur quickly stands with his hand hovering over his gun belt, ready to draw his revolver.

“Arthur?” you gently call out, hands raised, as if trying to avoid spooking a wild animal. “It’s me. (Y/N).” 

You see Arthur relax a bit, but he doesn’t look pleased. 

“What’r you doin’ here?” he gruffly asks, the timbre of his voice like rich black coffee poured over gravel.

You halt König by a tree next to Arthur’s horse and dismount, patting him on his massive neck.

“Figured I’d check on you to make sure you didn’t kill yourself,” you say as you approach his fire.

Arthur plops onto the ground next to his fire, eyeing the small dancing flames.

“Perhaps I should,” he responds, “Be best for everyone if I do.”

You stand at the fire, looking down solemnly at Arthur. He throws a pebble into the fire, sulking.

“You don’t mean that.” you say gently.

Arthur looks up at you, but quickly looks away. In that brief moment, you could see his bloodshot eyes. You could see he was in pain, though he attempts to hide himself beneath his hat. A wet sniffle reaches your ears as he shrugs his shoulders in response. You step over and sit down by him near the fire, the dirt is soft and warm beneath you. 

“You wanna talk about it?” You ask him carefully. Arthur is like a trap: you try to avoid reaching him in a way that causes him to close up, making it harder for you to pry him back open…if you can at all.

Arthur quietly shakes his head, fumbling with the toe of his boot. He grabs his neckerchief from around his neck and wipes under his nose with another harsh sniffle.

“You’d feel better if you do…instead of bottling it all up. You’re bound to explode if you don’t.” You reassure him. “But, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Silence.

You don’t push any further. Instead of forcing your way in, you wait patiently and let him come to you when he’s ready, like taming a wild dog.

A few moments pass as you both sit in silence. The sunset now gone as the sky is blanketed in stars. You take off your satchel and dig through its contents.

“Here,” you pull out a bottle of rum. “Want some? There’s not much left, but it’s enough.” You shake the bottle gently, swirling the contents inside.

Arthur scans the bottle in your hands. “Shoah,” he whispers. You hand him the bottle and hear the cork slightly pop with a _*fwoomp*_ as he opens it.

The two of you hand the bottle back and forth to each other. Neither of you say a word, only taking another shot of rum. The only sounds coming out of your mouths are the hisses you make at the warm sting of the rum.

You finish it rather quickly, as it was only half-full. But still a decent sized bottle. Tossing it into the fire, you sigh. Your body feels warm and loose, wrapped in a spiritual cocoon of cotton and distilled molasses. You feel ultimately relaxed.  
You look up to see Arthur laying another dead log on the fire, stirring the embers as golden sparks dance into the air like fireflies. He returns to his spot next to you, sitting closer.

You continue looking over at him and notice his eyes are now slightly hooded behind his eyelids. He seems to have relaxed a little as well, but still has a gloomy look on his face. He looks to you from the corner of his eyes. You notice and quickly avert your gaze to the growing fire in front of you. You decide to move closer to the warmth of the flames as the chill of the night air gets to you. It still amazes you how cold it gets when the sun goes down in this arid climate.

Pulling your knees to your chest, you rest your arms on your knees, your chin on top of your arms. 

“Got a spare blanket?” You ask him, still gazing into the fire. You can feel him stare at you, so you turn your head to him, now resting your cheek on your arms. 

His features are softened in the orange glow of the fire. You can’t help but smile a bit at how handsome he looks. He always made your heart flutter when he winked at you with those gorgeous eyes. Or when his nose crinkled as he smiled and laughed at your jokes. You would give him anything and everything to make him happy. 

“No…” he finally answers, breaking eye contact and looking over to his shelter. “But’chou can have mine.”

Despite your protest in taking his only blanket, he slowly gets up and walks over to his small tent. It’s more of a lean-to than a proper tent. The effects of the rum rush to his head as he loses his footing a bit, showing his slight inebriation.  
You didn’t think that the rum would hit him that hard, as you only feel tipsy yourself. 

“Have you eaten anything lately?” you query.

“Besides whiskey and that rum of yours? No,” he mumbles. “Ain’t hungry.”

After handing you his blanket, he plops down next to you again. His leg brushes against yours as he clumsily adjusts himself to sit comfortably.

“I should get you something to eat, Arthur. Otherwise, you’ll be sick in the morning.” You ready yourself to get up and walk to your horse until Arthur grabs your wrist.

“I said I ain’t hungry!” he pulls you back down angrily. His nostrils flaring as he looks at the fire, avoiding eye contact with you.

“Ow, geez! Alright, Arthur…god.” You hiss. He nearly popped your elbow out of place when he pulled you down. You rub at your wrist, the knees of your trousers are rubbed with dirt. Arthur hadn’t been physical like this towards you in years. It was only when you really pissed him off, usually during your shenanigans with John to get under his skin.

Suddenly, you notice Arthur huffing, breathing in short heavy breaths through his nose. In the firelight, his eyes have turned glassy. He appears to be holding back tears.

His voice is hushed, “I just don’t understand.”

You look at him silently, letting him gather his thoughts to continue. He continues staring at the fire, like he’s speaking to it instead of you.

He looks up to the stars with a sniffle, “I thought she was gonna marry me…said she would, but…”

His breaths are ragged as he holds himself back, biting his lip.

“We’ve been fightin’. Fightin’ so much lately. And then she told me that–that she can’t live with someone like me. That…if I can’t change –won’t change –” he pauses. He can’t bring himself to continue.

A moment of silence passes and you rest your hand on his knee. You caress the fabric of his jeans with your thumb, feeling the bone of his knee beneath the material.

Normally, Arthur would tense at the touch. But this was you, he trusts you. You were always there to comfort him, like the good friend you are. When it comes to fighting, you’ve seen Mary and him argue from time to time. Mary never liked arguing though. She would always recoil and shed a small tear, asking Arthur to ‘be considerate’. Arthur liked arguing, with anyone and everyone. Including you. Sometimes you’d get him riled up on purpose; say something to him that you knew would get him pissed. You liked getting him mad, and he knew it, and he’d do the same to you, much to Mary’s dismay.

She was always trying to cage the bear in him, but you regularly let him loose.

Arthur continues to explain, “She said…a lady of her standing has to think of other prospects. That she has her family’s reputation to uphold…whatever that means.”

Finally, you speak. “It means she wants you to change but isn’t willing to do the same for you.”

Arthur finally looks to you, “Well, she has. I mean…look at what she’s done with us.” He tries to defend. Even in heartbreak, he still sides with Mary. She really did have a hold on him.

“Really, Arthur?” You question him, holding his his gaze, his eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed tightly. He’s rethinking their whole relationship, dropping his head at the realization.

“I love her,” he says defeatedly. He rests his head in his hands, rubbing at his eyes.

“I know, Arthur.”

Truth be told, your heart breaks too. You never had a chance to tell Arthur how you feel about him. Once he was with Mary, you thought your opportunity was gone forever. Now that you have a chance, you still can’t bring yourself to do it, to tell him that there’s someone else waiting for him. Someone else who is willing to take him for who he is. But it’s too soon.

Arthur sighs, his voice breaking, “I wish I can forget about ‘er. Make the pain go away.”

You sit there thinking, “Well, I know something that could help.”

Arthur turns, staring at you like you’re a magician ready to turn a trick.

“It’s not like you’ll forget her forever, but at least for a moment you can. You wanna come with me to town? Get some drinks at the saloon?”

The idea of getting drunk with you in town made Arthur give you a teary smile. You are best friends after all. You always were a good time…when you weren’t fighting with him.

Arthur nods his head, “That sounds good.”

“On one condition,” you point, “You gotta promise me you’ll eat something.” You give him a wicked smirk.

Arthur chuckles, his eyes still bloodshot. His expression is a bit more cheerful. “Okay,” he mumbles.

You help Arthur tear down his shelter and fire and mount up on your horses. Before riding into town, you head back to camp to tell Dutch and Hosea. The last time you didn’t, you caused a ruckus in town and Dutch chewed your asses out for days. That was tame compared to the tongue lashing you both received from Hosea when he bailed you out of jail. It took you both a month to get the money to pay him back.  
Luckily, Dutch and Hosea let you go to town. But only if you two promised not to cause trouble again. They threatened they wouldn’t bail you out this time.

Making it into town, you both step into the saloon. Arthur saves the both of you a table at the far, dark corner of the building, as a precaution to stay out of trouble. You’re left at the bar to order drinks, and a simple meal for Arthur. He must’ve lived off of nothing but whiskey for the past few days because he didn’t appear to sober up. Which means you’ve got some catching up to do. You sneak a double shot of whiskey before walking over with your beers and a humble bowl of stew.

“Here,” You say, sliding the porcelain bowl in front of him, grabbing his hand and wrapping his fingers around the spoon as if he’s a child learning how to eat.

“Eat that, and I’ll let you have a beer,” you bargain.

Arthur sighs with a frustrated huff. He wasn’t one to break promises, but he loved disobeying you. He’d always claim he didn’t have to listen to you because he’s older. But time and time again, you prove him wrong on so many levels. He didn’t want to resist you tonight, he’s far too hungry, but far too proud to admit he’s hungry. So wordlessly, he shovels the beef and vegetable stew into his mouth, holding back groans at the delicious taste.

Time has quickly passed throughout the night, along with several jaunty tunes on the piano, and a table full of beers between you two. You’re entering the twilight hours as the number of patrons begins to filter out like the candlelights on the walls, but the night is still young for you. You both find yourselves chatting about everything and nothing. From an outside glance, it’s as if the pair of you haven’t seen each in other in months, and are now catching up and relishing in each other’s stories. Somehow, the topic of conversation veers to the subject of “who has had the best sexual conquests”…

“Nuh-uh! You and Mary?” You pretend to be shocked. You’re only slightly shocked at the knowledge that he and Mary were physically intimate. She would be a fool not to sleep with Arthur. You just didn’t want to believe in the thought of the two of them in bed.

In fact, the image made your blood boil.

“Yup.” Arthur replies, popping the ‘p’.

“She was real good too,” he continues to boast.

“Pffft! Yeah, right,” you scoff, taking another swig of beer. You hold a belch in your mouth.

Arthur is offended at your scoff.

“She was!” He defends. “She would—” he laughs. “She would sneak outta her room and meet me in the barn. We’d lay down in the straw, real nice and…Y’know.” He waves his hand to make his point.

“Do tell,” you say to him, resting your chin on your hand as if you’re entranced by his story.

“Shuttup…” he replies. He can see right through your façade. He knows you’re mocking him.

“She’s the best woman I ever had.” He says lovingly. He stares down at his bottle, only a swig of beer left. He guzzles it down.  
“She knew how to please me,” he smiles.

“Doubt it.” You cut in, holding the tip of your bottle to your lips.

Arthur’s head snaps up at your jest, looking at you in disbelief. That familiar look of annoyance paints across his face.  
“What?” he asks, his voice rising an octave.

“I guarantee you she was not the best lay you ever had,” you state with confidence. “If anyone knows how to please a man, it’s me!”  
Arthur is speechless. He looks at you with his jaw dropped, swaying back and forth slightly in his seat from the booze. His world is spinning.

“I bet she’d just lay there like a dead fish and just take it. Hmm?” You ask.

_Now perhaps you’re taking things too far._

“I bet she was too ladylike to do it out in the woods, y’know? Ride you like a bronco…”

The resonance in your voice drops to a whispering, sultry tone, 

“Out in the wilderness at your camp. By the fire, naked…out in the open. Howling so loud that the coyotes join in.”

Without realizing, you’re holding the neck of your bottle between your index finger and thumb and began stroking. You’re too busy staring down Arthur.  
At his lack of response, you take your chance.

“I’ll bet you that I can do a better job in just one night, than she ever did with you.”

_What the fuck are you doing?_

You silence your conscience.

Arthur’s eyes run up and down your face. You could swear that he even sneaks a quick look to your breasts, your silky skin exposed through the open buttons of your blouse. You forgot you undid the top three buttons in the heat of the crowded saloon.

“You really think so?” Arthur asks softly, the gruff of his voice causes the hairs on your neck to stand straight up. 

You reply slowly, “I guarantee you…that I can make you cum faster than she could.”

Arthur eyes you with hooded lids, giving a devilish smirk. When he leans across the table, you can faintly detect the smell of yeast from his beer breath.

“Prove it.” He growls.

Your heart is beating frantically. You were joking, of course.

But, every joke has a kernel of truth.

You keep your composure as you don’t want to ruin this moment. You know Arthur is calling your bluff. But this is your only chance at finally getting him to yourself. Your chance to finally get what you want.

“Alright,” you say coyly. “Gimme a second.” 

You rise to your feet, not very gracefully, mind you. The beer is dulling your senses but you continue to the bar. You pay for a room upstairs.  
You leisurely strut back to the table with confidence, thanks to the beer. Arthur watches you the entire time, not breaking eye contact.  
When you reach the table, you barely falter your stride and lightly grasp his hand, “C’mon,” you beckon him. You hold the key to the room in your other hand, leading Arthur up the stairs to the door of the bedroom.

You can’t help but tease him as you softly moan while slowly inserting the key into the keyhole. Arthur steps closer to you as you turn the knob. You can feel his heat behind you as you step into the room. If you were to bend over right now, your ass would brush against his crotch, perfectly. You turn to him, he silently closes the door behind him. Neither of you has uttered a word yet, just staring into each other’s eyes with mischievous smiles.

Your eyes wander down to his muscular neck, his shoulders, the dip at the base of his throat exposed by the open button of his shirt. Taking two steps forward, you gently push him into the door, placing both hands on his chest. Your fingertips brush against his exposed skin, your faces mere inches apart, the smell of beer and rum now strong in your nostrils. The tips of your noses faintly touch, as you both breathe heavy, calculated breaths. 

Arthur’s hands are now at your waist, resting on your love handles. The touch of his bulky, calloused fingers send goosebumps to your skin. You’re lazily unbuttoning his shirt as he explores your hips with his massive hands. You tip your chin up and brush your lips against his. His hands now wandered to your upper back, and he pulls you closer to him. Your hands are pinned between your bodies, and you feel his luscious, wet lips against yours. They feel so soft compared to the coarseness of his beard. Arthur may hate dealing with his facial hair, but you love it. The way his follicles scratch against your upper lip and cheeks make you wet.

Your bodies are now pressed against each other. Reaching down past Arthur’s belt, you feel for his cock. It’s now bulging against his jeans. You lightly squeeze and rub over his pants. Arthur gasps, his tongue in your mouth. You chase his tongue with your own. Your teeth click against each other awkwardly in your drunken stupor. You’re ravaging him, pinning him against the door and continuously grabbing at his thick bulge.

Arthur moves his left hand from your back to your breasts, his right hand is on your supple rear. He grips your cheeks tightly, pushing your groins together. Continuing to moan into your wet kisses, he grabs at your breast and squeezes. You gasp and moan into his mouth, eventually breaking the kiss to take a breath.

Moving to his brawny neck, you litter it with kisses, teasing him with bites and suckles that leave behind marks. Your hand still on his bulge, you feel his cock pulsating as his blood continues to rush south. You decided to free it from its confines. The sound of his belt clinking as you unbuckle it is the most beautiful sound in the world, like you’re opening the gates to heaven. His gun belt drops the floor with a heavy _*clunk*_. Continuing to his fly, you unzip it, brushing off his suspenders at the same time. You pull your head away from his neck to look down at his cock.

“Oh my god,” You breathe.

“What?” Arthur asks with genuine concern, bless his heart.

“It’s…so big.” You exclaim.

It’s so thick and hard in your hands.

You wrap your fingers around it, but it’s so fat that you can barely connect your fingers. It’s like stroking a fleshy rod, it’s so hard.  
You admire it. While it seems to be the same length as most men you’ve been with, there was something special about it. Gently pulling back his foreskin as you stroke him, you notice the girth of his cock bows out, starting right below the head and straightening out again further down the base.

Arthur stops massaging your breast and leans his head back against the door with a gravelly moan. You continue stroking his fat cock from base to tip until you see that glorious pearly bead of pre-cum on his tip.

 _I wonder if his precious Mary has ever done this?_ You think to yourself as you drop to your knees and pull Arthur’s trousers down to his ankles. Using the tip of your tongue, you lick the bead of pre-cum off the tip, causing his penis to throb.

Arthur sucks in a breath, “What’r’you doin?”

You look up at him, licking your lips seductively, his cock in your one hand and his balls massaged in the other. Compared to the men you’ve seen, Arthur definitely has the biggest set of them all. They feel so soft and warm as you admire them in your hand. You almost need both hands to cup them.

“Hasn’t anyone ever pleased you like this before, Arthur?” You wink at him as you lick the head of his cock again, then enveloping your lips on it, giving it a sloppy kiss.

“N-n-nooo.” He tries to groan out the words.

“No?” Your voice rises in surprise. “Tsk. What a shame,” you groan.

You don’t even give him a second to breathe before completely taking him in your mouth. You notice it’s been a while since he bathed as you taste him- a hint of saltiness- but you don’t mind. You moan, sending vibrations through his cock as you slowly bob your head. Looking up, you see Arthur’s eyes are now squinted shut in intense pleasure, breathing short shallow breaths, his hands hovering by your face, afraid to touch you. You wonder how long you could go on sucking him. You can handle all of his length no problem, but the issue was that bow in his girth. You could already feel your jaw getting sore, worried his thickness could pop it out of place.

It doesn’t take long though.

You continue to slurp along his cock, roaming your tongue upon his veins, relishing in the quiet moans and hisses coming from his plump lips. You take both hands and explore beyond his muscular hips and thighs, going around to grab onto his ass cheeks, feeling the dimples on the sides of his cheeks along the way. You continue sucking him hands-free, looking up at him, and he finally looks down at you. Seeing himself inside the mouth of a beautiful woman must have set him over the edge, as he involuntarily thrusts into your mouth. You sense he’s about to cum.

Immediately, you pop your mouth off his cock, denying him his release. Arthur gives a loud, rough groan at this denial and looks at you with passion in his eyes. You rise to your feet and feel his bulky hands grab harshly at your waist, yelping and giggling in surprise. Arthur rests his forehead against yours, his hands returning to grope your rear. You’re secretly begging for him to rip your trousers off and take you, as you’re soaking in anticipation. His mouth moves to your ear.

He whispers in a low growl, “Go lay down.”

You obey and step backwards, hitting the bed with the back of your knees, causing you to fall back gently onto the soft mattress. The springs squeak as you land. Meanwhile, Arthur kicks off his boots and removes the rest of his jeans that have pooled at his ankles, never breaking eye contact with you.

Lucky for you, there’s a full moon tonight, and the window curtains are torn, allowing the moonlight to shine into the dark room. Arthur stands completely naked before you, his skin glowing in the pale moonlight, the shadows accentuating every dip and curve of his muscles. He looks to be made of marble or porcelain, as if he’s been carved by Michaelangelo himself.  
As he approaches you like a prowling wolf ready to strike its prey, your heartbeat races with excitement. You watch his dick lightly bounce up and down with each languid step he takes. He hovers over you on the bed, the springs of the mattress groan under his weight as he places both hands on either side of you. He moves to kiss you again. You can faintly taste the rum, now overpowered by beer and a hint of beef broth from the stew.

He’s much more aggressive with his tongue now, slipping it into your mouth and demanding control. You feel a warm hand slip under your shirt, caressing the skin of your stomach before stopping at your silky, soft breasts. In one smooth motion, Arthur pulls your shirt up over your head and tosses it on the floor, exposing you to him. For a moment, you feel self-conscious as he stops and stares at your naked torso. You begin to wonder if it’s not good enough for him, but you’re quickly mistaken as he drops his head to your chest and devours you, sucking and twirling his tongue on your left nipple while kneading the other with his hand. You let out a surprised and pleading moan at the sensation, the room filled with your raspy ‘oh’s’ and ‘ah’s’.  
You let Arthur take more of you into his mouth as you arch your back off the bed, tenderly holding his head with both hands, pushing your breasts together as you do so. Arthur moans, sending a wonderful vibration onto your sensitive nipple. He picks his head up slightly, lips still latched onto your nipple, continuously sucking until it pops out of his mouth. He moves over to your other breast and repeats.

Writhing beneath him in pleasure, you desperately want to take your pants off, as they must be soaking wet by now. You move a hand from his luscious locks of hair and lower it between your bodies. Slipping your hand beneath your waistband, you rub a finger towards your opening and feel the juices pooling.

Arthur notices and straightens himself up, still straddling you and sitting back on his heels, his huge set conveniently resting on the fly of your trousers. He moves a burly hand to your crotch, unbuttoning the fly effortlessly with his lengthy fingers, the other slowly stroking his cock. A gasp escapes your lips at the feeling of his rough fingers exploring your vagina, his thumb hovering your clit. He slips a finger tenderly into your opening…then another.

“Damn, (Y/N).” he sighs, “You’re soaked.”

You grin and bite your lower lip. Arching your hips, you wordlessly give Arthur permission to remove your pants, raising your butt off the bed. With both hands, he effortlessly slips your trousers off, taking your boots off with them, leaving you completely naked as you lean back on your elbows. 

Arthur returns to hover over you on the bed, both hands on either side of you on the mattress.

“You gonna show me how you please a woman?” you whisper provocatively.

“Thought the deal was you pleasin’ me?” he cites with a wink. His nose brushing against yours.

“Alright then.” You answer, and playfully bite his lower lip. “Lay on your back” you order gently, he gives you a confused look.

“Let me please you,” you assure him.

Arthur obeys and rolls off you to lay on his back. His hands laying idle on his chest. Swinging a leg over, you straddle him, looking down at him. His hands move from his chest to gently grasp your hips, softly rubbing your skin with his thumb. His eyes are gleaming in the bright moonlight. You no longer see sorrow in them, but pleasure. You reach down beneath you to grab his cock and stroke it gently, watching his eyes flutter shut and his lips open to allow a small moan to escape.  
Lifting your hips, you lean forward and tease the both of you by rubbing his tip along your clit- the feeling of his sleek head sends a tingle to your core. Placing it right on the edge of your opening, you continue rubbing his cock along the outside of your vagina to lube him with your juices.

Arthur jerks his hips impatiently, so you take your cue. Adjusting your hips, you guide him into your opening, your slick wetness allowing him to slip perfectly inside you. Your breath hitches as you feel the entry of his tip, then comes the stretch of your walls as he slides his girthy member further. You both gasp at the sensation, freezing in place as you make it all the way down the base of his cock. You look into each other’s eyes, your body trembling, lips quivering as you relish in the feeling of his thick cock filling up your tight pussy.

“Oh, Arthur,” you whine.

Arthur tightens his grip on your hips, sinking his fingers deep into your flesh.

You straighten up and begin to steadily grind on his cock, allowing him to stretch your walls out further. Arthur’s eyes roll back in his head and the sound of his guttural moan beckons the return of goosebumps to your skin…like the low rumbling growl of a grizzly bear.

You begin to pick up the speed with his cock deep inside you, Arthur’s hips moving with you in sync. You lean forward on his chest and let him wrap his arms tightly around you, holding you close to him. You feel Arthur’s knees raise as he readies himself in a new position, his feet planted on the bed. He thrusts up into you, hard and quick. The sound of your skin clapping together echoes across the room.

“Oh…God!” you breathe, “You feel so good.”

Arthur groans and tightly shuts his lips.

“So do you,” he finally moans.

He continues to drive his hips upwards at a rapid pace. God, you’ve never laid with a man with so much strength, so much power.

You look up at the ceiling and cry out. You no longer care if anyone hears in the saloon below. You, m’lady, are getting pounded by Arthur Morgan, and you don’t give a damn who hears your screams.

You don’t want it to end. You want this moment to last all night.

“Hang on,” you say. Arthur pauses and releases his grip on you, allowing you to sit up.

Laying a hand on his chest to steady yourself, you bring your knees up and squat on your feet. With Arthur still inside you, you sit on him in a low, frog-like crouch. You bring both hands to his shoulders for stability while you slowly bounce up and down off his cock.

Arthur’s eyes go wide at the sight of you hopping up and down, seeing his penis disappear into you. This position is an amazing new discovery for him. Never has he had a woman ride him like this. The feeling of your lovely bottom smacking against his pelvis, the power of your thighs and calves holding your weight up as you raise and lower yourself on him…it’s enough to make him faint.

Yourself though, you’re quickly losing strength in your legs. You power through the burning in your calves, the twitching in your thighs. You focus your attention on the feeling between your legs, the divine feeling of Arthur’s cock inside you. Luckily, the curls of his pubic hair tickle your clit wonderfully as you hop up and down. You feel so close, and Arthur sounds like he is too. Suddenly, he grabs at your hips again and retakes control, relieving your tired legs. He thrusts upwards and pounds into you at a much more frantic pace, leaving you screaming.

“Oh, Arthur! I’m so close! Cum for me baby!” You shout, your voice high-pitched in ecstasy.

His thrusts falter as he drives himself in you as deep as he can, the two of you gripping each other tightly as you orgasm simultaneously. Explosions of color flash brightly behind your shut eyelids. Your body releases a rush of endorphins, wave after wave like an electric circuit. Once you’ve been released from your orgasms, you’re both left a panting, sweaty mess. You roll off of him and lay back with a satisfied sigh, breasts heaving with every pant. Your eyes look to the ceiling as your head swims and the room spins.

“I never came like that before,” you confess, slightly embarrassed. Here you were bragging about being the greatest in bed, when you never even got your own rocks off by a man. Most were two-pump chumps who’d leave you high and dry. Well, more like wet and unfulfilled and with stains on your skirt.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Arthur turn his head towards you.

“Really?” He asks inquisitively. You turn to look at him and see a crooked smile on his face. He looks so pleased with himself. Turning back bashfully and laying your forearm across your eyes, you chuckle out a “Yeah.”

“Can’t say I have either,” he admits softly.

Quickly, you turn your head back to him and cock an eyebrow.

“So…I won the bet?” You ask with a big grin.

Arthur stays silent, only shrugging his shoulders and smiling as he rolls over on his side to wrap himself around you. He was never one to admit he’s been proved wrong. So you accepted your victory in silence, rolling to your side to let Arthur spoon you.

It may already be a warm night, but you enjoyed the heat from his body huddled close to you. You feel safe and secure in the weight of his arms, though you worry if you need to pee you might not break out of his heavy embrace. Nevertheless, your eyelids quickly pull down like weighted curtains on a stage, as you fall into a deep sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after...

It’s been a few weeks since your drunken night with Arthur. That morning, you rose to a splitting headache and severe dry mouth as the morning sun woke you through the windows of your rented room. You distinctly recall feeling Arthur roll over behind you and stiffen as he realized whose bare waist he had his arms wrapped around. You were shocked yourself and said nothing while pretending to be asleep as he snuck his arm away and quietly rose out of bed. You heard him silently dress himself and leave the room without a word, leaving yourself alone to question it.

It was a long, slow ride back to camp that day. While you rode König at a leisurely pace, you tried to remember all the events that happened the night before: Arthur’s camp, the rum, the saloon, the endless conversations, walking up to the hotel room for some reason–guess you didn’t want to ride your horses drunk…then things started to get hazy. Obviously, you and Arthur fooled around considering you both woke up naked in bed. The more you tried to remember, the more scenes faded away in your memory. Your head was throbbing. Maybe you’ll remember more once this hangover goes away.

Gradually, your spotty memory returned once you properly rested and hydrated yourself.

The way he tensed up behind you in that bed irked you for days. Did he regret what you two did? You surely didn’t. But as the days went on and Arthur avoided you, you began to second-guess yourself. 

You had wished you weren’t so bold that night, because now your friendship is ruined. 

John started to notice it too: the awkwardness between you two. Whenever you sat next to Arthur to eat with him-like you always did-he would jump up and walk away. He’d say he forgot to talk to Dutch about something, or that he needed to run to town. Sitting across the table from you, John would catch sight of the hurt painted across your face, while he sent you looks of confusion. 

What hurt worse was that you couldn’t talk to John about it. He’d ask you what happened that night. What did you say to him? What did you do? 

“Nothing,” would be all that you’d reply. John’s like a brother to you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him what happened, no matter how much he pestered you. You know he wouldn’t understand.

It wasn’t easier with Arthur. He’d get short with John whenever he confronted him about it.

“What the hell happened that night, Arthur? Just what’d she do to piss you off so badly?” 

“Ain’t mad at her! Nothin’ happened,” he'd grumble.

“Oh really? Then why you been avoidin’ her? You won’t even go ridin’ with her no more! And she won’t even look at you-don’t act like I don’t see it!” He quickly yells at you as you try to interject.

“…There’s something up with the both of ya, and I’m tired of it! Just kiss and make up already!”

Both of your eyes went wide at that last remark while John threw his arms up in frustration. 

“Mind your own damn business!” Arthur yelled, violently shoving John away. 

“Enough!” You finally yelled, your voice cutting through their quarreling.

John stomped off to his tent, leaving you and Arthur standing in front of each other in awkward silence.

It was true, you couldn’t make eye contact with him-but not for the same reasons John may be insinuating. Arthur may think you were embarrassed about that night, too ashamed to look at him anymore. If anything, you just didn’t want Arthur to be uncomfortable around you anymore; you wanted to give him space so he could warm up to you again. To go back to the way things were.

“Arthur, I–” 

“I ain’t mad at’cha, (Y/N),” he interrupts with heat still lingering in the tone of his voice. He avoids your gaze with his head dropped down, eyes looking at his boots. Immediately, he turns to leave without giving you a chance to correct the situation. 

“No, lemme expl–” 

“Miss (L/N)! Mister Morgan! Quit bickering and get back to your chores!” screams the piercing voice of Ms. Grimshaw. The woman’s strides are like that of a military general, each step demanding authority as she nears you.

You look back to Arthur and realize he’s already gone, walking away with his back to you. You turn back to Ms. Grimshaw, her hands resting on her hips, nostrils flaring in irritation.

“Yes, Miss Grimshaw,” you reply meekly. 

A few more days roll by with Arthur no longer asking you to accompany him on jobs, and you involuntarily distance yourself from everyone else. You decided to keep yourself busy by washing laundry. You hated the chore, but it was something to do. Laundry is at least a mundane task enough to let you meditate in silence and organize your thoughts.

It was then you realize it’d been a while since you last menstruated. Contrary to what Ms. Grimshaw would stress to you, you never really kept track of your cycles. You weren’t all that sexually active. The men were slim pickings, and you didn’t want to risk getting pregnant or contracting diseases. (A popular scare tactic from Grimshaw when you were younger.)

Besides, you were fine with solving your sexual urges by yourself. Pleasing yourself with your fingers in your tent at night to the thought of Arthu– _Shiiiiit!_

_Shit, shit, shit, SHIT! ARTHUR!_

The vivid memories of that night come flaring back, like the ignition of flash powder in a photography studio. You frantically try to get your mind together. 

_Think. When did I last have it?  
Oh god, oh god, oh god!_

You’re frozen on your knees in front of the wash bucket, breathing heavily through your nostrils. Eyes focused on the soapy water as you try to remember. God, you can’t remember for the life of you! It couldn’t have been last month, could it? Two months? You had sex with Arthur when? Two weeks ago? How could you possibly forget? 

_Oh yeah, we were drunk._

But how could you forget a night like that? A night you always wanted, craved even. The two of you tried to pretend that night never even happened. You both tried to go about your regular business, with Arthur acting more awkward than usual around you. You hated it. You constantly worried if he regretted laying with you. 

“Fuck.” You whispered.

You were too frightened to even think of the word.

_Pregnant?_

“No,” you assured yourself.

“You alright, (Y/N)?” a voice snaps you from your thoughts.

You jerk your head up to see Hosea standing over you, one hand on his hip, another holding a pipe to his lips.

“Fine,” you say, trying to still the shakiness in your voice.

“You look as if you’ve seen into the future in that dirty water,” he points with the mouthpiece of his pipe. 

“Perhaps I have,” you attempt to joke, forcing a cringe-worthy smile. 

“Nothing good, I take it?” he retorts. 

Your smile falters as you lower your head and return your attention to the wash bucket, watching the foamy ripples while still holding a wet shirt in your hands. Your skirt is soaked from the soggy fabric. You shake your head silently, trying to calm your anxious breathing as your vision gets blurry with tears. 

A sigh comes from above you. Hosea crouches himself next to you and gently grasps your upper arm, taking the wet shirt from your hands. Ironically, it’s one of Arthur’s, the fabric stained and stretched from excessive use. He tosses it back into the bucket and cradles both of your hands in his. His touch is light and pleasant. A stranger would never guess his profession to be outlaw from the touch of his hands, but instead a gentler occupation like a tailor or doctor. He grips your hands as if he’s holding a small and fragile bird.

“Tell me…” he requests. “Is this about you and Arthur?”

You’re afraid to look him in the eyes when you look up, instead drawing your focus to his chest. You refrain from answering, but he can already guess your answer by your lack of response.

He sighs again, “What happened?” The inflection in his voice curious and worried, “You two used to be so close. Now neither of you will give each other the time of day.” 

You shrug, like a guilty child avoiding the responsibility for breaking a valuable item after being caught at the scene. 

“I dunno,” you mutter.

“Now don’t give me that,” he replies sharply.

By now your chin is quivering while you attempt to hold yourself together. You’re too terrified to tell him what happened. How will he react when you tell him you both got drunk and ended up in bed? Hosea always taught you kids to be responsible. You’re afraid he’ll never again view you as his quick-witted daughter, the brain of the three kids-Arthur, John, and Y/N-who was always so safe and had a calculated plan. Instead, you’re worried he’d see you as a hussy who got herself knocked up; someone who swooped in to take advantage of a friend to fulfill her own selfish desires.

Deep down you know in your heart Hosea wouldn’t think that of you, but paranoia is taking control of your thoughts. What if he sent you away? Would the gang accept a baby into the group? Or would they view it and you as a nuisance?

“C’mon. Let’s go for a walk,” Hosea rises and opens his hand to you. “We’ll take all the time you need.” 

You take his hand and he pulls you up to stand. The two of you silently walk out of camp, away from prying eyes and open ears.  
You’re at least half a mile away from camp by now before Hosea stops you. He takes a step forward and turns to you, arms crossed.

“Now, tell me what happened,” he presses, with a stern yet sympathetic look.

You battle with yourself. Do you tell him the truth? Do you tell him the two of you got drunk and slept together? That you may or may not be pregnant?

Instead, you lie.

“I uh,” you clear your throat, “we got drunk and um…I said some pretty nasty things about Mary.”

You finally look up to Hosea and see his expression is unreadable, his chin tipped up as if he’s examining you.

You continue, “I tried to cheer him up, y’know? Tried to tell him he’s better off without her. That she’s not worth it, nothing but a money-grubbing, gold digger from a greedy family…”

You drop your head, “Said she wasn’t even pretty. Said that she couldn’t even pass for a two-penny whore.”

It agonized you to say these things. You feel them cut through your heart like a knife. 

“(Y/N),” Hosea sighs disappointedly. “That ain’t like you. You know better than to say things like that. You liked Mary.”

“Well, I did but…not anymore.” You respond, straightening yourself to instill false confidence in your lie.

A moment passes in silence. You’re left feeling worse for lying to him. This is Hosea, the man who could always see right through you. You never lied to him. 

Does he even believe you?

Hosea raises his arm up and places his hand on your shoulder.

“I know your heart was in the right place, (Y/N). But, it’s no good talking like that about a woman in front of a man who loves her…Even if she did break his heart.”

You discreetly nod in response. Shuffling your feet in the dry New Austin dirt.

“I know,” you agree softly. “I feel stupid ‘bout the whole thing.”

“I bet you do,” he responds, “I hope you had a chance to apologize.”

You shrug your shoulders again, “Not really. Man won’t even speak to me.”

At that, Hosea claps at your shoulder. “Well, let’s change that.”

He turns you to walk back towards camp, “Go tell him, (Y/N). I’ll catch up with ya.” He gently nudges you forward and you step on towards camp, looking back at Hosea. He nods his head to encourage you on. 

_Great. Now what do I do?_

Your mind goes blank as your feet mindlessly walk you back towards the edge of camp. You don’t even realize you’re already standing by Arthur’s empty tent, with no idea how long you’ve been standing there.

Suddenly, a gruff voice behind you makes reality snap back into place.

“(Y/N)? What’ryou doin’ here?”

Quickly turning around, you see Arthur in a sweaty state, a pile of chopped wood behind him. His hat is abandoned and his head drenched in sweat, along with his buttoned shirt, or…partially buttoned. He walks to his tent panting and rubbing the sweat from his brow with his forearm, revealing a small portion of his lower stomach as his shirt rides up from his trousers. Your eyes involuntarily follow the familiar trail of hair down to his covered groin.

Stammering at what words to say, your tongue feels fat and your lips loose.

“I- uh, um…Arthur?”

“Yes?” He answers slowly with a slight annoyance.

Closing your eyes with a deep sigh, “We need to talk.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starts right after Chapter 2, Arthur and reader have a chat. She goes to the doctor.  
> Warnings: descriptions of female anatomy (your body’s going through changes, hun. But nothing super graphic.)

“Talk ‘bout what?” Arthur asks, stepping past you and into his open tent. You turn to follow right behind him, making sure to stand in the entryway. If he wants to leave, he’d have to walk right through you. Your talk with Hosea had finally given you the bravery needed to confront this issue head-on.

“I think you know what.” You reply, arms straight and hands fidgeting the fabric of your skirt.

With his back still to you, Arthur stiffens. You see a hand curl into a tight fist, his fingers immediately unbend and relax at his side. You try to silence the pounding in your chest, pounding so loud like the war drum of an approaching battalion. Worry seeps through your thoughts while your body steels.

Arthur turns only slightly, his body unmoved while his head slowly veers to look at you over his shoulder. From the side, you can clearly see his eyes make contact with you, normally hidden beneath his father’s hat when he looks straight on. It felt likes ages since you looked into those eyes. Those eyes made from crushed sapphires and emeralds, sprinkled with subtle hints of amber that shine in the light.

Letting out a heavy sigh, he abruptly turns his gaze away, “Ain’t nothin’ to talk about.”

Taking a step—nay, a leap forward, you gently protest, “Arthur…what’s wrong? I—I know it has something to do with that night.”

As you step over to look at him directly, Arthur counters by turning away and avoiding your stare. He mentally curls within himself like a scared, wounded animal.

“I want—I want you to know that…I don’t regret what we did. And—goddammit, will you just look at me?!” You shout.

You feel the other members darting their attention to you throughout the camp.  
At that, Arthur reluctantly turns to face you, like a scolded child. You can’t tell if he’s nervous or annoyed by the look on his face: the tight pursing of his lips, the furrow of his brow. 

“I’m sorry if I pushed you into it,” you continue. “It wasn’t right of me to take advantage of you.”

A moment passes in agonizing silence, and Arthur looks into your eyes.

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” you repeat, this time you avert your gaze and look down to your hands, wringing them nervously. “I just want things to go back to the way they were…but if it can’t, then I understand.” 

Without hesitation, you move out of his tent and quickly march to your own with your head held low. You try not to look at the other camp members so they can’t see the tears welling in your eyes. It took so much strength to speak to Arthur, and you feel as if you’re a second away from collapsing. 

Approaching your tent, you realize there’s no privacy for you to cry in peace. Anyone could hear you and ask, and you have no desire to speak to anyone else tonight. Looking to the horizon, you see the sun set. The dry dirt of New Austin glows red like the embers of a fire. The long, thin clouds cut through the indigo sky in a mix of orange and pink. 

You decide to walk to the edge of camp, to a lone tree standing high above the shrubs. Gently falling to your knees, you lean yourself against it and let go. The tears trickle down your cheeks like heavy rain on a window pane. You struggle to take deep breaths with your lungs constricting and heart hammering away. 

You weren’t even there for a full minute before you hear footsteps coming from behind you. 

“Go away,” you seethe through your teeth in aggravation, not bothering to look at who’s coming. But the footsteps don’t falter, continuing to stamp through the dirt towards you. 

Turning towards the sound you nearly shout, “I said, GO AW—”

You’re stopped short. It’s Arthur, raising his hands slightly as if he’s trying not to spook you. 

“I’m sorry, just…gimme a minute?” he asks.

You hesitate, quickly wiping the tears from your face. 

“Sure,” you turn back around, leaning back against the tree, feet crossed and your knees held up your chest. Arthur steps up near you, leaning his shoulder against the thick trunk. 

There’s an uncomfortable silence between you that seems to last forever until Arthur finally speaks.

“I wasn’t lying that night when I said that… what we did was the best I had,” he confesses, scratching the back of his neck. “I guess I—well, I dunno,”

He sits himself down next to you, viewing the beautiful sun disappearing below the horizon. The sky gradually darkens to a deep blue, the evening stars shining brightly. 

Looking over at you, he continues, “I guess I was afraid.”

You turn to him, eyes scanning his face, unblemished except for the scar on his chin, a reminder of life’s harsh gifts.  
“Afraid of what?” you ask. 

He shrugs, “ ‘fraid of losing’ you, I guess. I thought you only did it ‘cause you felt sorry for me.”

You cock your head to the side, raising an eyebrow at him, “What?”

Arthur looks back at the horizon and continues his confession.

“I-I know. It’s silly now that I think about it. Hell, I weren’t even sure if you remembered anythin.”

He lets out a deep sigh, “I wanted to give you space…thought you regretted it the way you looked at me—or I should say, didn’t look at me.” He chuckles dryly.

A tiny chuckle rises out of you behind your dried tears.

“I’m sorry.” you say.

“ ‘m sorry, too.” He responds, looking back over to you with a symptathic smile. You catch his eyes studying your face.

“Does this mean we can be friends again?” You inquire.

His eyes squint while a big grin forms on his lips, “Yeah, if you wanna be.”

Taking him by surprise, you embrace him in a hug.

“I do.”

He returns the hug by squeezing his arms around you. You feel safe in his burly arms, the feeling of his warm, bare neck against yours calms you. You take in the scent of his thick hair while he rubs his bulky hands across your back.

—————

Another week goes by and things seem to return to normal. The friendship between you is rekindled, though deep down you secretly crave more. But you refuse to push further. You don’t want to mess things up again.

You almost forget one thing.

Your period still hasn’t shown up. No spotting, no subtle dots on your undergarments, nothing.

And now, you begin to notice other symptoms. At first, you thought they were signs of your upcoming period. But these were different. You couldn’t eat, yet you were starving. Your breasts were tender, your nipples began to darken, and you swore they felt a little bigger than before. Have your breasts swelled before on your periods?

Everything you ate from Pearson gave you intense heartburn. It didn’t matter what it was, your chest felt like it was on fire and you were belching lava.

You were constantly tired from the most menial activities. You tried blaming it on the heat, but it’s October, and the weather is mild. The nights were cold and yet you’d wake up in a sweat. There was no denying it now. You had to go to the doctor to be sure.  
But how? It’s not like you could convince Dutch and Hosea to let you go see the doctor when visually, you don’t seem sick.

After your morning chores, you see Arthur sitting in his tent. Unbeknownst to you, he watches you from below his hat, sketching you in his journal. The past few days, he has been capturing the worried look on your face, transferring it to the pages of his book.  
If only you had seen the written entries of his journal, then you could see his growing feelings for you. He could be honest to himself in his journal, explaining the conflict within himself. His heart still felt loyal to Mary, as the wounds were still fresh. However, being with you helped patch the trauma of heartbreak. Was he only trying to find a substitute for Mary? Or were these feelings towards you genuine?

He closes his book as you approach his tent.

“Hey Arthur?” you greet him with a nervous tone.

“Yeah?” He replies, the sound of his voice soothing you only minutely.

“If you’ve got a minute, would you mind going into town with me? I uh, heard about some rich newlyweds moving into a homestead not far from here. I’d like to check it out, but Dutch wants me to get the mail first…wanna come with?”

He stares at you for a second, eyes squinting in confusion.

“Funny, I didn’t hear anything about this. Usually Hosea finds out ‘bout these.” He replies.

Your mind scrambles as you to try to convince him to escort you without giving yourself away. Normally, you go into town by yourself. But you’re too scared to enter the doctor’s office on your own and you desperately need someone there with you.  
Someone you can trust.

“Yeah uh, he actually told me about it and said I should look into it,” you state. You shove your hands into the pockets of your trousers to stop your fingers from twitching and fidgeting.

“So what’dya need me for?”

Struggling to hold back a frustrated groan, you blurt, “I dunno! Willyoujustcomewithme?”

You’d be surprised if he could even understand that sudden outburst of words.

The both of you stare at each other with wide eyes until you plead softly, “Please?”

With a suspicious look, Arthur sets his journal down on his cot beside him.

“Okay,” he croaks slowly. “Just gimme a minute and I’ll meet’cha over there.” He points over to the horses.

Leaving Arthur, you jog over to Dutch’s tent. You’re only there for a quick second as you poke your head in.

“Arthur and I are going to town, we’ll be back tonight.” You rapidly state, not even giving Dutch a moment to process what you just said before you pop your head back out. You swear you saw him jump with a startled look, nearly dropping the book in his hand.

What you didn’t see was Hosea standing in the tent across from him, leaning back against a table.

Dutch looks to him with his mouth agape and forehead wrinkles creased, “What the hell was that about?”

Hosea shrugs his shoulders, “I don’t know…” he looks over to the closed flaps of the tent. “But I’m sure it’s fine.”

“You haven’t been noticing that something is up between those two?” Dutch asks lowly.

Hosea is well aware, but he knows better than to indulge in Dutch’s skepticism so as to not let him worry any more than he should.

“They’re fine, Dutch,” he responds, stepping forward from the table and placing a hand on his shoulder. “If you’re so worried about them, I’ll go and talk to them tomorrow.”

“Perhaps we both should. Find out what’s going on…I don’t like not knowing.” Dutch closes his book.

Hosea chuckles, “I know.” He pats Dutch’s shoulder once more before leaving the large tent. He watches you and Arthur mount your horses before cantering off into the distance.

Dutch is right, there is something going on between you two. Whatever it may be, Hosea only hopes both of you are being safe, especially you.

——————

The pair of you make it into town fairly quickly. Mainly because of you pushing your steed to a full gallop, almost leaving Arthur behind. His mare can hardly keep up with your thoroughbred.

“(Y/N)! Slow the hell down!” Arthur yells as you reach the outskirts of the town.

You were in such a daze, you didn’t realize how hard you were pushing the horses. You just wanted to get to the doctor fast, prove to yourself that you’re not pregnant. The thought had been gnawing at you like a dog on a bone. You don’t even recall if Arthur said anything to you on this trip. You had tuned the whole world out.

Pulling on the reigns, you slow König to a walk to let him catch his breath.

“Sorry,” you call behind you as Arthur catches up to you.

“Why you in such a damn hurry? Not like the mail’s goin’ anywhere.” He trots his horse up beside yours and you both ease your way into the streets of town.

Going into town has always made you nervous, as you’re unsure if someone will recognize you as part of the Van der Linde gang. Luckily, the gang’s presence is not that well known in these parts of the country. But you never know what could happen, so you always watch your back.

“I’m not in a hurry, I just—I remembered I got some other things I need to get while we’re here.” You reply to him.

“Mhmm,” Arthur hums, eyeing you suspiciously from his horse.

The two of you reach a hitching post nearby the post office, dismounting your horses and continuing on foot.

“And uh, what ‘other things’ did you suddenly need to get?” He teases.

You blank. Do you persuade him to go with you to the doctor? Or should you distract him? Keep him in the dark until you know your condition for sure?

“(Y/N)?”

You jolt as Arthur is suddenly by your side, lightly grabbing your elbow to get your attention. He drops his head to look at your eyes, staring at you with slight concern. You’re trembling in fear. Fear of telling him the truth. Fear of the unknown.

You finally look into his eyes, clearing your throat of the growing lump in your throat.

“I uh, need to pick something up at the doctor’s office.”

He straightens up immediately like a spooked horse, but before he open his mouth to ask, you stop him.

“It’s for Miss Grimshaw. It’s…y’know.” You wave your hand. “Lady stuff.”

Arthur makes a disgusted face at which you laugh.

“Tell you what. I’ll get the mail and you go to the doctor, and uh, I’ll meet you up later,” he says.

You nod to him and walk over to the doctor’s. The walk is short, but feels like it’s miles long. With each hurried step, it’s as if you’re further away.

You finally reach the storefront of the building. Looking up at the painted lettering, your heart beats even faster.

**Dr. Thomas Birner, M.D.  
General health, surgeries, pharmaceuticals**

Taking a deep breath, you step inside. You nearly jump at the sound of the bell on the doorframe. You catch the attention of a young woman, slightly older than you, sitting at the front desk. Her tiny spectacles sit on the edge of her nose.

“Hello, may I help you?” She asks kindly. Her delicate fingers organizing the papers littering her desk.

Your mouth feels dry as you step forward and lay your hands on her high desk.

“Um, is…is the doctor in?” You ask meekly.

“Why of course,” she answers. “Lucky for you, he’s only got one patient ahead of you. So you shouldn’t have to wait long. May I get your name?”

Rapping your fingers nervously at the edge of her desk, you give her a false name.  
“(Y/N)…(Y/N) Dougall.”

“Ok, Miss Dougall. Just follow me.” The young woman stands up and leads you down the hallway.

“Take a seat in here and Dr. Birner will be with you shortly,” she says, holding her arm out in the doorway to invite you to the room.

She shuts the door behind you as you step inside. Sitting down on the cold chair, you look around to see pictures on the walls. Drawn images of organs and human bodies with descriptions are hung up by thumbtacks.

Suddenly, you feel nauseous. You jerk your head over to the door as you hear it click open.

A tall, young man enters the room. He looks too young to be a doctor, in fact. You discreetly examine his long legs and slender torso, moving up to his face. He’s nearly masked by a dark, thick beard, trimmed short to his jawline. His hair is so dark, it almost looks like it’s painted on him. His nose is long and upturned, and the attention of his doe-like eyes move from his hands to you. He pulls out a cigarette and lights it, taking a deep drag before finally speaking.

“Miss Dougall, is it?” He asks. His deep tone is a mix of authority and kindness.

Swallowing your nausea, you answer. “Yes.”

“No need to be afraid Miss. I can see you’re nervous…” he pulls up a rolling chair and squats in front of you. His chair is lowered so that you’re looking down at him, instead of eye-level. The way his knees bend as he sits makes him look like he’s part grasshopper.

“…I’m here to help. So, what seems to be troubling you?” He asks, looking up at you. The cigarette burning slowly in his mouth. His pale, lengthy fingers remove it from his thin lips and places it on the ashtray near.

“Um…well. I, uh, think I may be um…” you gesture with your hands as you can’t bring yourself to say it. You run your hands over your lower stomach.

Dr. Birner’s eyes dart to your stomach. He pauses before finishing your sentence, tilting his head at you.

“Pregnant?” He asks. The timbre of his voice is oddly soothing, as you fail to detect any hint of judgment. You expected the doctor to be an old man who’d give you a lecture about the dangers of sex and pregnancy, how you should have been more responsible, blah, blah, blah. But Dr. Birner seemed to be understanding, like he already knew your life story just by looking at you.

You nod your head while maintaining eye contact.

He rubs his hands in his lap, “And I take it that this was not planned?”

Pursing your lips tightly and wringing your hands, you silently shake your head.

You hear him breathe a small sigh through his nose while he looks up to you again with those big eyes.

“I see…Well, nothing to fear, Miss Dougall. We’ll soon find out. If you don’t mind…” he stands and beckons you to a nearby table.

“Just lay on this table here and relax for me.”

You do as he asks and lie flat on your back on the cold, metal table.

He gently pushes down near your groin with the pads of his fingers, pressing in small areas around your lower stomach. You feel a slight discomfort at this feeling, but surprisingly relaxed by his touch. You watch him narrow his eyes as he focuses.

“When was your last menstruation?” He asks softly while still pushing down.

You try to count the weeks back, “Um, I’m not sure. About two months, at least.”

“Hmm…and uh, do you—well, how do I phrase this? Would you consider yourself…romantically active?”

You furrow your brow at him, “Romantically active? You mean, do I have sex often?”

He lets out an embarrassed chuckle and nods his head, “Yes, to put it mildly.”

His light-hearted chuckle brings a small smile to your lips, easing your nervousness.

“Well, I wouldn’t say I am. The last time I had…relations, was several weeks ago…with a friend.”

“And is he aware of this?” He asks, straightening up and moving over to a nearby cabinet. You hear him rifling through items before pulling out what looks like a horn connected to a tube.

You shake your head, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, “Not yet.”

Dr. Birner hums again. “If I may, could you untuck your shirt and unbutton your trousers for me?”

You squint your eyes at him. Any man who would ask that would only want one thing. You’ve been tricked and used so many times before, it’s the only thing you expect of men.

He senses your tension and reassures you, “I just need to listen. See this here?” He lifts up the instrument, the horn in one hand and the two odd, silver prongs in the other, “I can listen to your body and the little one inside you…if there’s one in there.”

Nodding your head, you slightly pull your shirt from your trousers, only exposing a small amount of skin. Next, you undo the top two buttons of your pants and go no further.

Dr. Birner pulls your shirt up only a tad and touches your bare skin, his fingers feel ice-cold to the touch. But they’re not as cold as his instrument, causing you to draw in a sharp breath through your nose. He places the horn on various areas of your groin, much like what he was doing earlier. The two silver prongs are now in each ear. He looks straight ahead as he tries to listen.  
Removing the prongs from his ears, he straightens himself up and smooths out his shirt sleeves.

“Well, Miss Dougall, it may be too early to know for sure. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like a more thorough examination.” He says.  
“More thorough than this?” You ask.

“Yes. Don’t worry, my wife is at the front desk and she has experience with this. I’ll ask her to come in and help you.” With his long strides, he steps over to the door and leaves the room.

Oh, how you wish Arthur was here with you in this room. The doctor’s uncertainty made your paranoia increase tenfold. You laid on the cold table, shivering violently as you swallow the lump in your throat. You wrap your arms around yourself in your own embrace, wishing it was Arthur’s warm body holding you right now.

———————

Arthur struts out of the post office, stepping into the warm midday sun. The number of people on the streets grows as they go about their day, completing their errands. Arthur begins sorting through the mail letters, leaning against a tall gaslight pole. His heart twinges in disappointment as he sees there are no letters for him. He still carries a small shred of hope that the woman he once loved will change her mind; send a letter to him asking to run away together. But as the weeks rolled by, it became apparent that their relationship is truly over.

The memory of that night with you is triggered as he remembers the heartbreak that lead to it. It seems that you and Mary are tethered in his thoughts, he cannot envision one without the other slipping into vision. While the thought of Mary brings him pain, you bring him pleasure. Your friendly affection towards him is the soothing balm he needs to heal the scarring burn on his heart.

He takes his time walking towards the doctor’s office, as it took him only a minute to retrieve the mail. He has no intention of rushing you, since you’re only picking up an item or two. It shouldn’t take long. So he slows his stride, stopping every once in a while to peer into the glass windows of the stores and boutiques: a cobbler shop with hand-made leather boots and satin slippers set on a display shelf, a toy store with wooden figurines and cotton dolls, and a gun shop showcasing the latest models of rifles and revolvers that have just come out.  
As Arthur checks the stores, he regularly looks over to the doctor’s office to see you waiting there. But you have yet to come out.

_Curious._

He continues walking over to the office and halts in front of the small steps. Raising his chin, peering here and there, he tries to get a good look inside. Unfortunately, the glare of the sun is making it difficult to view inside the dim office.  
The bell rings as he steps inside, his heavy boots landing with dull thumps. Two people down a hallway turn to look at who’s entering the door: a tall young man and a petite young woman.

“Good afternoon. Just take a seat over there and we’ll be with you shortly.” The woman says, pointing to a chair near the front desk.

“Uh, actually. I’m lookin’ for a friend o’ mine,” Arthur steps forward. “She came in here a lil while ago.”

“Oh, Miss Dougall?” Dr. Birner asks. He beckons for the young woman to enter the room off the hallway. She enters, carrying a white sheet or gown of some kind, leaving only him and Arthur.

“She won’t be long. I’ll be finished with her shortly.” He states.

Arthur stammers, taken aback, “Wha—Is…is she alright?”

Dr. Birner senses Arthur’s worry and gives him a reassuring smile.

“Of course. Just an examination.” He steps back and turns to enter the room, closing the door behind him.

Arthur’s left alone at the front of the office. He takes off his hat, running his fingers through his hair and fumbles with the brim of his hat. Shifting his weight from one leg to the other, he stands there, waiting.

—————

You lay on the cold table as you hear the door click open again. This time, it’s the woman entering the room. She tells you to strip your trousers and undergarments off and she lays a white sheet over your lower body.

“It’s all right,” she assures you. “It’s a routine examination. Nothing to worry about. I’ll be right here next to you if you should ever feel uncomfortable.” She looks to you with soft eyes, her blonde hair glowing in the light of the room.

The corner of your lip upturns to a small smile at her reassurance.

“Dr. Birner says uh, you’re his wife?” You ask.

She responds with a warm smile, “That’s right. My father was a medical man and he trained my husband as an apprentice while he was studying.”

She fixes the sheet that’s laid across your legs.

“That’s how we met,” she remembers fondly. Her eyes unfixed as she becomes lost in thought. “We both have a passion for medicine. I studied to become a midwife. We both taught each other everything we knew.”

“A what?” You ask. You never heard that word before.

“A midwife,” she repeats. “Someone who helps the mother with childbirth, so to speak.”

Suddenly, the door opens again and Dr. Birner steps in, walking over to the sink and scrubbing his hands.

“Are we ready, ladies?” He asks softly.

The two of you nod as the doctor sits in his stool again, now at your feet at the end of the table. He holds a small tin in his hand and rubs his fingers with the oily balm that’s inside.

“My name’s Christine, by the way,” she whispers to you, holding your hand. You smile and nod to her. Even if Arthur isn’t here with you, you’re glad to have Christine by your side.

“Christine, if I could have you stand over here, please.” The doctor asks. She obeys and stands as close to him as possible, the two of them facing you.

“And (Y/N), if you could bring your knees up for me.” He doesn’t order you. Instead it feels like he’s asking for permission, and you consent.

You feel them lift the sheet up to your knees, and the cold air hitting your bare regions. You nervously fidget with the hem of the sheet as you feel him touch you. You can barely make out what they’re muttering to each other behind the sheet. He presses here and there on your groin while inserting two fingers into your vaginal opening.

Christine looks up and senses your discomfort.

“You ok, (Y/N)?” She asks, reaching for your hand to calm your fidgeting. Her warmth is a wonderful change from the doctor’s ice-cold fingers. It’s like wrapping your fingers around a warm cup of coffee.

You quickly nod while scrunching your eyes, wanting to get this ordeal over with quickly. The doctor continues to poke and feel around with intense focus in his glare. The two of them continue to whisper to each other, you’re too focused on the feeling inside you to listen.

Finally, the doctor straightens up and slides his fingers out of you. Christine takes her cue and rolls the sheet back down to cover you. Dr. Birner steps back to the sink to wash his hands, shaking them dry. Turning back to you, he catches your stare with a forlorn gaze.

“Well, Miss Dougall, I’m afraid to tell you this but…”

Your breathing quickens to a near panic, leaning up on your elbows in anticipation.

“It does appear you’re pregnant. All the signs point to it.” He wipes his hands with a clean cloth, leaning against the counter.  
Your eyes dart back and forth in panic. Your chin quivers as you hold back a scream. You look away from the both of them as you suck in a deep, shaky breath. The pair of them stay absolutely still as they watch.

Sitting up, you move your legs to the edge of the tall table, still covered with the sheet. You can hardly contain yourself anymore as you clasp a hand over your mouth and cry, wrapping an arm around your midsection. You feel Christine’s sympathetic hand rub across your back. Ashamed at your outburst of tears, you drop your head in your hand and hide your eyes in your palm, continuing to shake as each sob rolls out of your chest.

“What’do I do now?” You cry softly into your hand.

Dr. Birner shifts his weight as he answers, “The best thing you can do now is keep yourself healthy. Eat more, drink lots of water, and try not to overwork yourself.”

Stepping forward towards you on the table, he continues, staring at you with those big, brown eyes. “If it’s at all possible, I’d like to see you again in a month.”

With a wet sniffle, you gaze at him with confusion.

“The early stages of pregnancy are the most important,” he explains. “And I’d—we’d like to make sure everything’s going smoothly. For you and the baby.” He and Christine look to each other with fondness.

“I dunno if I can afford that mister.” You confess.

“Don’t worry,” he consoles. “We’ll only charge you what you can afford. Even if it’s just a penny.”

“No offense but, why do you care so much?” You ask.

The two of them turn their heads to each other, the fondness now replaced with melancholy. Dr. Birner looks like he wants to answer, but continues to look into Christine’s eyes as if he’s asking for approval.

Christine turns to you and answers, “To be honest…we can’t have children.” She looks back to Dr. Birner, “No matter how hard we try, it’s just not possible.” She reaches a hand to him and he grasps it, squeezing it gently.

“So, we want to help you. To make sure your baby makes it into this world safely…We realize that it’s God’s plan for us to use our gifts and help others give birth to His children.”

Never have you met such kindness from strangers before. The only instance was Dutch and Hosea taking you under their wings. You instilled your trust in so few people. And here you are, with a young couple offering their charity to you. Do you take it?

If it meant for the safety of your unborn child, then yes.

“Thank you.” You cry, sniffling and wiping away the tears.

A few more minutes go by as the doctor gives you instructions on taking care of yourself during your pregnancy. He steps out of the room while Christine helps you back into your clothes. Your hands tremble as you try to button your pants and tuck in your shirt. Your whole body feels exhausted as you shake like a beaten dog.

Christine leads you to the door and opens it for you. You step out with your head held down, watching your feet walk you forward down the hallway. You wipe at your nose with the back of your hand and look up.

_Shit._

Arthur is leaning on the front desk, his leg bouncing impatiently and his forearms resting on the countertop. His hat lays on the counter as he turns his head over to you. His eyebrows are upturned in worry, his forehead wrinkling. He stands up straight but doesn’t move.

And neither do you. You stop dead in your tracks.

“Arthur? What’r’you doing here?”

He swings his arms heavily in uncertainty, “You told me you were just pickin’ somethin’ up…You were in here a long time.” He tenses his shoulders up. “Is evertythin’ alright?”

You bite your lower lip, “Sort of.” You step forward to the desk while Christine follows behind you and returns to her seat.

“How much do I owe ya?” You ask.

Christine distractedly glances at Arthur, then to you, “Um, ten dollars.”

You scramble through your satchel and find you only have seven dollars in your bag. Sighing, you take out the crumpled wad of cash and hand it to her.

“This is all I got, I’m sorry.” You state with embarrassment.

“Here,” you hear Arthur’s gruff voice beside you. He pulls out a neat stack of cash and slides out three extra dollars, placing it on your stack.

“Arthur, no. You don’t have to.” You protest.

“Don’t worry about it,” he counters, placing the stack of bills back in his bag.

You thank him softly.

“Should we expect you back in a month?” Christine inquires, causing Arthur to lean and peer at you.

Quickly nodding your head you let out a small croak, “Yes.” You immediately turn to leave the awkward situation and walk out the door. Arthur steps right behind you.

Walking briskly, you nearly jog back to your horses tied at the post office. You avoid looking back at Arthur who doesn’t struggle to keep up your pace with his long strides. You feel him staring at you. Neither of you speak a word as you near the horses.  
You’re about to untie König from the post when Arthur finally speaks up.

“(Y/N)?”

You stand still with your back to him, shoulders tensing.

“You wanna tell me what happened back there?” He asks.

Tremors shake through your body. You gnaw at your lower lip, nearly drawing blood from the constant biting. You hear him step towards you and place a hand on your shoulder. You tense up at his touch and turn to him, causing him to release his hand as if he’s been burned.

He notices your bloodshot eyes. Your face is paled, and you let out a shaky breath.

“I’m pregnant.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Reader confirms her pregnancy with Arthur, Arthur gets a talking-to from his one of his dads, the gang prepares for the new addition._
> 
> _Warnings: blood, a graphic dream sequence._

Arthur’s eyes nearly bug out of his head. He backs away from you, jaw dropped.

_Pregnant?_

“What?” 

Knowing that the tears could flood out at any moment if you speak, you simply nod.

Flabbergasted, he asks, “How?” Though he already has an inkling how, but he just has to hear it to confirm.

Your voice wavers, “Remember that night in town? I took you to the saloon and we got drunk?”

Arthur stays silent, dumbfounded. Of course he’s remembers. He remembers all of it despite being wasted that night. Slowly nodding his head, he mumbles,“Yeah…I ‘member.”

“Well.” You raise arms up in exasperation, dropping them to your side, confirming your original statement.

Still shocked, Arthur’s thoughts are going a mile a minute as he stammers, “Are ya…are you sure it’s m—”

“Yes it’s yours!” You interrupt. _How could he ask that?_

He holds up his hands in defense, taking a step towards you.

You finally break down in tears, dropping your head in your hands. You try to hold back the sobs, not wanting to draw attention from anyone on these filled streets. You feel a warm embrace as Arthur’s arms wrap around you, holding you tight underneath his bulging biceps and rugged forearms. You soak his shirt with tears while crying into his chest, muffling your sobs.

Noticing the onlookers turning their heads to the scene, Arthur attempts to soothe you, “C’mon, let’s go for a walk, he says.

He breaks his embrace but moves his grasp to your shoulders as he holds you up. You desperately want to go back into his arms, to be held and forget about the world. Just for a moment.

You both walk your horses to the outskirts of town. Your face feels hot from your emotional outburst, and your eyes finally dry as there are no tears left in the reserves. Inside, you feel hollow. You silently pray and hope that this is all just a bad dream.  
Arthur takes the reins from your hands and leads both horses to a nearby tree. It towers over you with its mighty trunk and canopy of leaves. The fall wind gently blows and the leaves whisper as they brush together. Wrapping your arms around your midsection, you ask the question that’s been rattling your thoughts.

“What am I going to do?”

Arthur drops his head while stroking his mare’s neck, untangling the knots in her copper mane. Resting his forehead on her, he tries to think. He too, is perturbed with questions.

Turning to you he can only answer, “I dunno.”

He reaches for your hand and you do too. The two of you meet in the middle beneath the tree, grasping each other’s hands. Your grip is tight, holding onto him as if you’re close to falling, standing on the edge of a cliff. He looks into your puffy eyes, his own now glassy as he braces himself.

“I’m so sorry.” He quivers. Wrapping his arms around your shoulders, he holds you in a tight squeeze. You hug him tightly around his waist. The two of you place your faces in the crook of each other’s necks, breathing shuddered breaths into warm skin.

“It’s all my fault,” he declares. “ ‘m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” You deny with a wet rasp, sniffing away your runny nose.

“It is. I should’ve been more careful.”

“We’re both at fault, Arthur. And there’s nothing’ we can do about it now.”

In your embrace, you feel him sway you back and forth delicately. The two of you silently continue to hug, wordlessly consoling each other. For a moment, you feel calm. Breathing in Arthur’s scent, you feel slightly at ease.

A few more moments pass as you stand beneath the tree. The only sounds come from the horses stamping their hooves and shaking their heads. The soft clinks of their metal bits and leather bridles gently coax you back to reality. Loosening your grip on Arthur’s waist, you step back. Looking deep into his eyes, you notice they’re filled with the same sorrow you saw that night.  
He’s filled with guilt. Guilt that he’s filled you with his bastard child. Guilt that after this, his chances of returning to Mary will be no more. Guilt that he partook in a selfish act with you that night and now you’re left with the consequences. You shouldn’t bear this burden, he thinks. He wishes he could relieve this weight from your shoulders.

But if he can’t take away the load entirely, he’ll at least carry it with you.

Returning your gaze, he asks, “What d’we tell Dutch and Hosea?” His voice is infused with worry.

Holding his hands in yours, you shrug your shoulders. 

“The truth, I guess.” You look down at your boots, “But…we should wait. Don’t have to tell ‘em just yet.”

He tilts his head and looks to you with a furrow in his brow, “You think that’s a good idea?” He whispers. “Shouldn’t we tell ‘em now?”

To be honest, you’re not sure. You’re afraid of the possible repercussions when you tell them. You know they’ll have to find out eventually, but maybe you can grant the two of you some solace while the rest stay in ignorant bliss. At least for a while.

You shake your head and clear your throat, “No. Not just yet. In case…something happens.”

He tilts his head at you like a confused dog, trying to make out an unrecognizable sound. He asks, “Like what?”

Arms crossed, lightly gripping your elbows, you struggle to say it, “Lots of women have miscarriages. ‘Specially with their first. Maybe we should wait until we know for sure.”

He squints his eyes at you, but slowly relaxes.

“Okay.” he grips your hand and shields it in his. 

You two take your time to calm down from the news by sitting under the tall tree. You sit side-by-side with your backs against the trunk, your head resting on his shoulder while he lays his head on yours. He gently grasps your thigh and rubs his thumb across your knee. The sensation sends a comforting shiver through your body as it still trembles in shock. Leaning against Arthur’s warmth slowly brings down your adrenaline. You both converse on what to do; when to break the news. 

You ask if the gang will accept the baby. Arthur assures you they will.

Will you have enough money to feed it? Clothe it? 

Again, Arthur assures you that you’ll both find a way. 

The midday sun drops to late afternoon, and you both take your cue to mount up. Otherwise, those at camp may start to worry. Spurring your horses to a slow trot, you take your time riding back. You feel numb during the entire trip. An aching sadness and worry fills your chest, like an anchor pulling you down further and further into the abyss Your skin feels cold and your joints ache. So many thoughts gnaw at your mind. So many unsatisfied questions. 

You finally make it back to camp at sunset. Exhausted from the day, you head straight to your tent. Arthur takes it upon himself to unsaddle your horses and give them a rub down. 

Closing the flaps of your tent, you sink down onto your cot in silence. Time stands still as you stare blankly at the ground. studying the dirt between your boots. The longer you sit, the more tears creep to the surface of your eyes. 

Suddenly, a voice whispers your name from outside your tent. 

“(Y/N)?”

It’s John.

Quickly wiping away the tears, you clear your throat and answer, “Come in.”

The crack between the flaps open, letting in what trace of sunlight is left on the horizon. John takes a hesitant step inside and stands in front of you. 

“Everythin’ alright?” he asks, fidgeting with his nails. 

“Yeah–ahem. Everything’s fine…Why do you ask?”

“Well, you’ve been acting weird lately. You won’t talk to me no more…did I do somethin’ (Y/N)?” 

A dry chuckle rumbles out of your chest and you sake your head reassuringly. 

“No, John. You didn’t do anything. I’ve just been–I’ve been out of it for a while. I’m sorry.” You attempt to give an uplifting smile as you look up to him.

Quickly, he steps over and sits next to you on the cot. 

_Ever the caring little brother, John is._

“What is it? You sick or somethin?”

“I guess you could say that,” you reply with another chuckle. 

“What’d’you mean?” He presses. He stares at you with an upturned brow, his young forehead wrinkled with concern. 

You try to shake it off, “Nothin’. Just a cold for somethin’. I’ll be fine.” you wave a hand. 

“Liar,” he retorts.

_Goddamn it. he’s good at picking that shit out._

“It’s nothing, I swear.” You stare back at him, steeling yourself against those puppy dog eyes of his. 

His lips tighten into a thin frown and he refuses to break his gaze.

“Bullshit. What is it?”

Your heart hammers in your chest. There’s no way you could tell him of all people. 

“Tell me…or I’ll go straight to Dutch right now.”

Back straightening at his threat, you hiss, “You wouldn’t.”

He gets up off the cot and moves to open the flaps.

“Wait! Wait! Wait!” you beg, grabbing his forearm closest to you. You nearly dig your nails into his skin, you’re so frantic.

Standing still, John turns his head to you with a rascally smirk. 

He’s got you now.

Now fully facing you, he crosses his arms across his chest, imitating the same confident posture as Dutch.

_What a little shit._

You look up to him like a wounded animal looking at its predator before the final kill: eyes wide with despair, mouth agape with shallow pants passing through your lips, praying for the end. 

“You have to promise me, you won’t tell anyone else,” you answer with a tremble in your throat, “Understand me?”

He silently cocks his head, eyes blinking. 

“Absolutely no one.” you repeat, emphasizing each word.

John shrugs and nods, “Okay.”

Blinking your tears away, you look down at your feet and take a deep shuddered breath.

“I’m pregnant.”

“What!”

You leap from your cot and slap your hand across his mouth, “Shhh! Shut up!”

He smacks your hand away and holds your wrist, whispering, “How?”

Pushing him to the side, you peer through the slit of your tent. No one seems to have noticed the outburst, thank God. You look back at John who’s completely dumbfounded. 

You finally explain, “Arthur and I had sex a while back. After he and Mary broke off their engagement.”

Looking up at John, you thought he was going to drop dead at that moment. He stammers, trying to comprehend it. He tries so hard it looks as if it’s giving him a headache.

“What?” he whispers harshly. 

You groan and drop your head in your hands, rubbing your face. The tears are pushing against the thin veil, like water seeping through the cracked leather of an old canteen. You sit and grab his arm to pull him down next to you. The two of you whisper as you explain to him what happened and he continues to ask questions. 

———

Meanwhile across camp, Arthur finishes rubbing down the horses. Looking over from the hitching posts, he sees your tent is closed. He darts his head from side to side, looking around to see if anyone’s watching. Giving his horse a slight pat on the neck, he sneakily walks over and cracks the slit of the tent to step inside. 

He’s nearly scared shitless when he sees John in there with you. 

“Jesus!” Arthur jumps and hisses, startling both you and John. “What the hell are you doin’ in here?” Arthur asks. 

“I could ask you the same thing,” John whispers harshly. 

Arthur glares, his jaw clenched, “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Suddenly, the tension within the canvas walls grows. You find yourself sitting on your cot, curled within yourself between these two who are standing nearly nose-to-nose. 

John states, “I think you know what I mean…after what you did to her.” He points to you, his voice laced with venom. 

Immediately standing, you step between the two, facing John and shoving at his chest, “John, don’t! You promised!” you hush.

Arthur leans forward and gently yet vigorously grabs at your shoulder, turning you to him. 

“You told him?!” he nearly yells but still in a low whisper. 

Now distraught, you respond, “He was gonna go to Dutch! What was I supposed to do?”

“Goddammit,” Arthur breathes, raising his head and rubbing his hands across his hair. He grabs at the roots and takes in a deep, irritated sigh. 

John attempts to cut in, but is interrupted by a finger at his chest. 

Arthur warns through clenched teeth, “Don’t. Tell. Anyone…You got that?”

John stares at him in uncomfortable silence before finally heeding his warning, “Fine. But pretty soon, everyone’s gonna find out.” John turns his attention to you, “You can’t hide it forever.”

You’re more than aware of the truth in his statement as you collapse back on the cot. 

Meanwhile, Arthur continues to press into John, “At least for now we’ll have time to figure things out. In the meantime, you keep yer mouth shut.” He refuses to lift his finger away from John’s chest. 

John sighs and nods. He knows better than to disobey Arthur. 

“Now git out.” Arthur orders him.

John looks to you with raised arms, his expression asking you to let him stay. Knowing he only wants to help, you decline him. You point your chin to the entrance of your tent, “Please, John,” asking him gently. “We can talk about it tomorrow.”

He lets out an exasperated sigh and shakes his head, “Fine.”

Once John leaves, Arthur sits with you and stays a while. Holding your hand and stroking it with his thumb, he asks how you’re feeling. 

To which you reply, “I don’t feel anything.” Which is true, concerning you still feel numb from the aftershock. Arthur offers to stay the night with you, and as much as you’d like him to, you decline.   
Squeezing his hand in yours, you tell him you don’t want Dutch and Hosea to notice something’s up. While he reluctantly agrees, he gives you a swift embrace. You return the hug and sit quietly in each other’s hold for Lord knows how long.   
Arthur’s warm breath through his nose brushes against your hair and you feel the sand-papery stubble of his chin on top your head. Noticing that darkness has fallen, you remove your head from beneath his chin and move to light your lantern. Arthur still lingers his hands on your back, as if afraid to let you go. Returning your gaze at him, you both sit in silence, afraid to speak. 

Arthur finally coughs, “Uh, g’night (Y/N).” He shifts in his seat, readying to stand.

“Good night, Arthur.” you reply softly. 

“I’ll see ya tomorrow.” he promises. You simply nod in response and give a little smile. 

————

Unfortunately, Hosea and Dutch already notice something’s up. Hosea’s been watching your tent ever since John walked over. Then Arthur. Then John left and Arthur remained. Hosea peered his eyes at your tent for a long time until Arthur left.

It was well dark now. He watches the glow of your lantern as you light it through the thin canvas. He continues to observe as Arthur finally steps out and looks around, not noticing Hosea watching him from under his hat, leaning against the post of his tent. 

When Arthur reaches his own tent, Hosea pushes himself off the post, lit pipe in hand, and struts over. 

“How’d the trip to town go, Arthur?” Hosea asks.

Arthur jumps and stammers to come up with quick lies, but Hosea cuts to the chase.

“Wanna tell me what’s going on between you and (Y/N)?” He asks bluntly.

Arthur shrugs, “What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb, Arthur. Dutch and I see somethin’ going on between you two.” He takes puff off his pipe. “Now spill it.”

Arthur withers under Hosea’s stare and takes a deep sigh, “You wanna…sit a while? It’s kind of a long story.”

“Oh boy.” Hosea mutters.

He sets himself down beside Arthur on his cot, listening attentively to each word. His reactions change with each direction of Arthur’s story.

The sun is long gone and the moon is high when Arthur finishes.

“…and so, we only just found out today. We thought we’d wait before we’d break the news.” Arthur continues defeatedly, “But I guess it’s out now.”

His heart hasn’t stopped racing since Hosea walked over, and it continues when he hesitates to respond. 

“I have to admit, Arthur…I’m disappointed.” Hosea dumps the contents of his pipe and stamps it out on the dry earth.   
“More-so in (Y/N) than in you.” Hosea points.

Arthur springs up. “It ain’t her fault.”

Hosea is surprised at Arthur’s quick defense, causing him to tilt his head and give a curious smile.

“I am sorry, Arthur. I really am.” He places a reassuring hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “No one’s ever ready to be a parent…even when they think they are.”

Hosea’s expression changes as his smile falters into a frown at the memory of his cherished lover.

“Lord knows Bessie and I tried.”

Arthur shifts uncomfortably as he tries to think of a way to express his sympathy, but he silences.

Hosea continues with a sigh, “I wondered if I was ready to be father…if I deserved to be one.” He looks over at Arthur, eyes scanning his face, “Do you think you deserve to be a father, Arthur?”

Like a nervous student called upon by the teacher, Arthur’s scrambling to come up with the right answer. He twiddles with his thumbs and fumbles his words. He truly doesn’t know. The life of an outlaw is all he’s known. His own father treated him like dirt, and he can faintly recall the love of his mother. Can he be a good parent to your child? Or will he follow in his father’s footsteps?

Hosea notices the inner confusion Arthur’s wrestling with. His hand still resting on Arthur’s shoulder, he gives it a gentle squeeze before rising off the cot.

“Take care of her, Arthur. She needs you.”

Arthur can only nod as Hosea walks away, back towards his own tent. His figure is shadowed in the dim moonlight. Arthur’s heart is now aching in his chest. The anxiety of parenthood looms over him.

Is he ready for this?

It’s a question that can never be settled, as the deed has already been done.

Hosea’s right, he thinks to himself. No one’s ever truly ready.

—–———

Hardly anyone got any sleep that night. Arthur, John, Hosea, and least of all you. You tossed and turned on your creaky bed, worrying about what’s to come. Soon enough, your anxiety wore you out and you fell asleep into a tense slumber. The nightmares were constant that night.

_You had woken up on a hospital bed with crisp white sheets. The white walls surrounding you were blinding. Looking down at your bloated stomach, you felt an intense pain. You cried out in agony and from the corner of your eye, you see Dr. Birner rush in, followed closely by his wife Christine.  
Both are dressed in white, just as bright as the walls. You squint your eyes at the intense light they bring into the room. You continue crying at the pain in your lower region._

_A hand grasps yours and you turn to see Arthur standing beside you, his brow upturned in fear._

_Dr. Birner stands at the end of your bed. Both of your knees are raised and your legs are opened to him. Both Arthur and Christine grasp at each leg and hold you while Dr. Birner orders you to push._

_Surprisingly, you only have to push once until you feel the release in your lower region._

_You can’t see what comes out of you, but you can see the look of horror on their faces. Christine raises a hand over her mouth and begins to sob. Arthur turns away from the mass held in the doctor’s arms. Leaning forward, you notice black blood pooling by your feet. You look to see your newborn in his arms._

_It’s completely lifeless and black. Like it’s been dipped in thick oil. The black substance drips from its body onto the white sheets. It stains the sleeves and apron of Dr. Birner. He looks to you with tears in his eyes, but you…you feel nothing._

_Absolutely nothing. No sorrow, no remorse. Just…completely numb, while the room is filled with their wails and sobs._

_You reach out to the doctor and slip the baby into your arms. It’s limp body feels light in your hold. The inky substance spreads like roots onto your forearms and up to your shoulders, spreading to your chest. You still feel no emotion as it engulfs you._

_You look back down to your lifeless newborn, slippery with black blood._

_It opens its mouth in a gasp._

Your own gasp jolts you awake. The early morning sun peeks into your tent. The pain in your stomach returns with the feeling of nausea. Leaning over, you quickly grab a porcelain bowl near your nightstand and vomit. Your abdominal muscles contract as your body forces the acidic bile up your throat.

Your hands continue to tremble after you cough the rest of it out.

Sitting a while, you let your body relax and your mind return to reality. Staring upon the bowl on the grassy floor, you try to comprehend the images of your dream. Your heart sinks at the thought of your lifeless baby.   
Mindlessly, your hand rubs against your lower stomach, caressing the little bean inside you. You promise to it and yourself that you won’t let anything happen.

“(Y/N)? You up?”

“Arthur?” you ask the voice outside your tent. “Come in.”

Arthur steps in with a steaming bowl of food in hand, handing it to you before sitting down next to you. Noticing the porcelain bowl on the ground, he asks, “You alright?”

Holding the warm bowl of stew in your hands, your mouth salivates at the sight of it. You’re so hungry, you don’t care what it is. As long as you can keep it in your stomach. 

“Had a bad dream,” you answer, grabbing the fork and biting at the food. 

—————

Another month goes by and the news has already spread throughout the group. Miss Grimshaw lessens your chores for the sake of your aching joints and Pearson makes sure to give you extra rations. Much to your surprise, everyone’s in a good mood regarding the news. They’ll walk up to you and rub your small bump, asking you if you think it’s a boy or a girl and if you’ve come up with names yet. Your anxiety lessens at the sight of everyone getting ready to welcome the new member. 

Well, almost everyone. 

While Dutch has maintained a neutral demeanor, you can’t help but think he doesn’t welcome the thought of both you and Arthur having a child. You swore you heard him and Hosea quietly arguing in his tent, and Dutch saying you’re both too young to raise a child. You can’t necessarily argue with Dutch there, but you can’t lie and say you don’t feel a little hurt knowing he doesn’t support this. 

You make your scheduled visit to Dr. Birner, with Arthur by your side. The ride to town takes longer than usual, with Arthur reminding you of Miss Grimshaw’s warnings about you riding in your condition. So he makes sure you take it easy by riding his horse instead of yours. He’s aware of the bond you and König have, but your horse still has a bit of that stallion in him and Arthur worries of any potential accidents. 

The check-up goes well and the doctor asks to see you again in another month as you’ll enter your second trimester. Visiting Dr. Birner and his wife Christine gives you hope that things may turn out alright. In fact, you look forward to your next visit; to see the warm smiles from the two of them.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's delivery time! But it's time for some angst beforehand. Some heated words are tossed back and forth, and there's...complications during delivery.

The time has drawn closer to the end of your term, as Dr. Birner calls it. You ride to his office with Arthur driving the wagon, since it has become too difficult to ride a horse in your condition. 

During your ride, you struggle to rid your thoughts of the last conversation with Dutch. The excitement of a new member born into the gang had worn off the moment Dutch called you and Arthur to his tent.

The mood was bleak when you both entered the privacy of Dutch’s spacious and ornate little home. The pair of you sat on Dutch’s cot, awaiting his arrival after he asked to meet you there. The sound of his boots against the wooden planks of his floor nearly made you jump with each looming stride. Arthur may not have known why Dutch called you both there, but you already had a suspicion. 

Dutch sat himself in front of you both, leaning forward, resting his forearms on his knees. He was always a hard man to read, that Dutch. Years of living on the streets as a wanted criminal has blessed him with the gift of manipulation. He’s not a bad man, as he’s always treated you with kindness and respect. Unlike many other men in this country, he has never raised a hand to you. For too long, you had lived under the tight fist of a hateful father and the burning stare of a distant mother.

But Dutch? He has always treated you like you were his precious daughter, giving you support when you needed it and independence when you wanted it. When you came across him and Hosea in the open country years ago, you quickly realized they were the first men you could trust. However, the older you became the more you realized you still don’t truly know Dutch yet. Perhaps you never will know the real Dutch, but only an impression of him.

“You know why I called you both in here?” Dutch asked, slowly moving his gaze between the pair of you.

Instinctively, you laid a hand on your belly. It seemed the baby inside you sensed your worry and began to wriggle in the womb. It had grown so large now that you can barely carry its weight. The most miniscule tasks became difficult, even breathing.

Arthur sensed your worry next to you and answered, “If this is about us and…the baby, believe us,” Arthur leaned forward on his elbows, mimicking Dutch’s posture, “We can handle it.” 

“You think you can handle bein’ on the run with an infant child in your arms?” Dutch asked, “Will you raise it as an outlaw? Teach it the life of a bandit? Robbing…and scamming people for money? Running from the law? Killing?” 

You both sat confused. Dutch just described how he had raised you both, and now he believes you can’t do the same?  
Why? Was the life of an outlaw finally wearing down on him? Was he looking for a way out for your unborn child? To prevent it from being subjected to a life of violence and mayhem? Clearly, there was much more you and Arthur had experienced with this ‘family’. It’s not all robbing and killing. Looking over to Arthur, you could see him focusing.

Arthur responded with uncertainty, “But Dutch, you was the one that told us that there’s more to life than just money. And we don’t kill people who don’t deserve killin’.” He continued, “You always said we’re a family. We help those who can’t help themselves. That’s what you and Hosea taught us.”

Dutch only hummed in response, as Arthur was right. The gang only takes what they need to survive, to live comfortably away from civilization. Anything left over from scores, they give to those less fortunate than them.  
You watch him ponder for a moment while he hesitates to speak, thinking of his words before articulating them.

Finally Dutch states, “I’m only thinking about what’s best for your little one,” he points to your rounded stomach. “Having a child is a big responsibility. The moment it arrives, your life will change dramatically. Can you give it what it needs, hmm?”

He raises a brow at you, gesturing with his open hands, “Will you be there for it when it needs you?”

Hand still pressed on your stomach, you tightly gripped the cloth of your skirt at his words. They made your chest constrict from their impact, like the sudden blare of a horn from a passing train. They shook you to your bones. 

He continued talking, bringing an odd positivity to the conversation, “Y’know, there’s plenty of people out there who can’t have children of their own. And they would be more than happy to give it a proper home.” Dutch reaches to the drawer of his end table and pulls out a fresh cigar, pointing to the outside of the tent with one end. “You have to think about what’s best for the gang. We need you two now more than ever.”  
He lit the cigar that was now clenched between his lips, “We can’t afford any slip-ups.”

_Slip-ups?_

Dutch holds up his hands, palms facing you, “Now I ain’t askin’ you to make a decision right now…but soon you’ll have to. Just think about it. Hosea and I both agree this is the best option.”

Now Arthur is the one with white knuckles, balling his fingers into a tight fist. He’s so confused and his mind is running with a hundred questions.  
_Hosea agreed to this idea? How?_ Arthur wonders. How can Hosea completely change his mind? After all those things he said to Arthur?

Perhaps Hosea realized how hard it would be on both of you. Life was hard for him and Bessie, and even harder now that she’s gone.

Now Arthur is left with no idea on what to do. His guidance appears to have been split.

————

Dutch’s words still lingered in your ears long after that meeting. On the steady ride to Dr. Birner’s office, you both pondered over his words. What could he have possibly meant by what he said? Could he not trust you two to raise a child? Was he worried you’d leave the gang? Would you slow them down?

You must admit, as much as you didn’t want this pregnancy, the thought had never crossed your mind to give it up. Everybody back home seemed so accepting of the idea of a baby, including Arthur. He appeared to warm up to the thought of being a father. The first few months were rough, though. You’d wake up early in the morning to the sound of him hastily chopping wood, or stacking hay bales in an angry manner. He was tense. One day he was cleaning his rifle and you thought for sure he’d bend the barrel when he forced the pieces back in place. A piece had gotten jammed and his temper was flaring. Frustrated, he slammed the gun on the table and stormed off, hissing out curses along the way while you calmly walked over and put it back together for him. Things had gotten better the further your pregnancy went along. Arthur had calmed down and eventually asked that your tent be moved next to his, just in case. For the first time in months, you felt happy and he seemed at ease.

But now, the sense of impeding doom was seeping back into your heart. You’re left anxious and undecided as you make your way inside the doctor’s office.  
The routine inspection goes quickly and without issue in Dr. Birner’s office. As it draws to a close, Dr. Birner turns to you from the sink in his examination room. He wipes his pale hands dry and continues to fiddle nervously with the damp towel.

“So, what are your plans for the child?” he asks hesitantly.

Tucking your oversized shirt into your trousers, you ask, “What do you mean?” noticing the uncertainty in both his eyes and Christine’s. 

He answers, stumbling upon his words, “I mean…uh,” he pauses until he manages to gather his thoughts, now scratching the top of his head. “Do you both…intend on raising the child yourself or…?” He waits for you to finish the sentence for him.

Furrowing your brow, you look to Arthur who appears to be just as confused as you. You ask, “You mean, give it up?”

Dr. Birner answers with a tense sigh, “Yes. Now, I know it’s a big decision, but I–I mean–we wanted to let you consider the option of…” He looks over to Christine. She sits calmly in her chair near him, waiting for him to finish.

You follow his gaze over to Christine, who’s reached across to hold her husband’s hand. His once always calm demeanor has changed, as if he’s afraid to ask you this question. Christine’s soft voice chimes in to finish what he struggles to say. 

“We’re willing to adopt your child. Should you decide.” she says. 

Stunned at this offer, you now find yourself stuttering and stammering, struggling on what to say. Arthur’s hands suddenly find yours and holds you gently. 

Arthur speaks, “We uh–ahem,” he coughs, “We appreciate the offer, miss. But uh…”

“It’s a lot to ask of you, we know.” Dr. Birner interrupts, a palm raised in capitulation. “We know that having a child can be tough, and many people find themselves unable to provide them with the support they need…We just wanted you to know that we are more than willing to welcome your child into our home. To raise it, and love it as our own. Should you find yourselves unable to.” 

Your heart pangs at their charitable gesture, knowing how they’ve suffered heartbreak numerous times times from lost opportunities. You feel this world has been far too cruel to them: to deny an honorable couple the one thing they truly desire, something others would view as simply a burden. And now, here’s an opportunity for you to grant their wish.

But can you give it to them?

Breaking the tight seal of your lips, you tell them, “Thank you. Thank you both.” A deep, painful breath fills your chest and you answer, “We’ll let you know when we make a decision.”

You’re met with synchronized nods of understanding and the room is left in an awkward silence. You desperately want to leave the room as quickly as possible.

Deep down in your heart you know you can’t give up your baby that easily, as much of a surprise it’s been these past several months. As much as you’ve cried yourself to sleep every night, you can’t possibly bring yourself to do it. 

Arthur silently walks beside you as you make your way back to the wagon, both of you weighing your options. The slow ride back to camp was eerily quiet. The only sounds comes from the creak of the wagon wheels and the horses huffing. A growing tension wedges itself between you two. The dry leather of the reins in Arthur’s hands become soft and saturated with the sweat of his palms as he grips them tightly. He waits, pondering on what to say. He’s afraid he’ll say something wrong.

A nervous cough breaks the silence next to you, “Y’know…They might be right.” Arthur tells you, stopping the wagon at the edge of camp. The top of Dutch’s tent is in view; always the tallest shelter out of the rest. Like a church steeple in the center of town, no one would dare exceed its height of authority. 

“About what?” you ask, wrapping the shawl around you tighter. You don’t feel cold, just…vulnerable.

Arthur cocks his head at your feigned ignorance, knowing full well what he means. 

“About us raising the baby,” he answers. “Think about it. Are we really fit to raise a child?” 

Your heart rate rises at Arthur’s sudden change in attitude. It appears that Dutch could really change Arthur’s way of thinking if he wanted to. It was effortless for him to do. And now with an eligible couple in the equation, the solution for him is simple.

“But…we got the gang to help us out,” you implore. 

“We’re outlaws, (Y/N),” he interjects. “This kind of life ain’t right for a baby. Do you really think the gang would help? This is a chance for us to make things right.”

 _Make things right?_ you wonder. _Or a chance for him to be free, should a certain someone come calling?_

First Dutch, then the Birners, now Arthur. You feel as if everyone is pitting themselves against you. The safety net beneath you is beginning to fray and snap, leaving an open pit below, and now you’re being pushed further and further to the edge with no one to grab you from falling.

The familiar panic in your heart has returned, gripping it tightly as it beats frantically. Your mind races to come up with a solution but alas, you cannot. The panic is now paired with anger that seeps from your heart into your lungs. That familiar feeling that you haven’t felt in so long has come back.

Betrayal. 

You haven’t felt that way since you were left by your parents. Sent to live with your grandmother all alone, an old woman who could barely take care of herself. You were left all alone when she died. Left with no money to pay for a plot in the church cemetery. Left to drag her to the hole you dug in the pasture, with only the help of a sympathetic altar boy. Left all alone to wandering bandits and misfits who came across that lonely house.

“I dunno, Arthur.” You reply meekly. You can’t help but feel betrayed by his words, shocked by his new attitude towards the growing baby within you. It wasn’t long ago he gave you those words of comfort: that things would be alright, he’ll be there by your side, you’ll both make it work.

 _Empty promises, I guess._ You think to yourself.

The familiar sting in your eyes return as tears begin to swell. A sharp breath escapes you, making it difficult to keep your composure as your muscles tremble violently.  
His heavy hand rests on your shoulder, but you can’t bring yourself to look at him. Your voice cracks in a mix of sorrow and regret.

“I can’t do it,” you whisper, staring down at your feet.

“Yes you can,” he says. “Think about the life it can have. Think about what the Birners can give it that we can’t.”

The aged wood creaks beneath Arthur as he shuffles in his seat. He continues, “Dutch is right. We won’t always be there for it when it’ll need us…it ain’t fair.”

The heat of anger is boiling within you now, and you cannot hold yourself back.

“Oh, ain’t fair?” You ask bitterly, your is jaw clenched so tightly your teeth could crack. “You wanna tell me about fair? Huh?” The voice of reason trying to hold back your fury is gone, and the venom spews out of you like an angry snake.  
“Was it fair when I was left alone to rot in that old house? Was it fair when I had to kill that stranger who came in to take me for his whore? When I had to run with nowhere to go? I was a _child_ , Arthur. Was that fair?” You spit.

That is why you can’t bring yourself to abandon your child. You refuse to do the same as your parents did: drop you off as someone else’s responsibility because of the inconvenience. You didn’t want it to be left all alone like you.

The bile of your words had spilled and there was no turning back. Fueled with outrage, you continued to let the running train fly on the tracks.

“Was it fair when I fell in love with you? Only to watch you run after someone else’s heart? Was it fair to run and find you after you’d leave every fight with Mary? Was it fair when I had to tell her myself that you were sorry? To be the damn mediator between you? Was it fair when I stayed to pick up the pieces after she broke your heart, after you had broken mine?”

The speeding train is nearing a sharp corner, and there’s no one around to slow it down.

“Was it fair when I _finally_ got what I wanted, I ended up with this?” You snarl, gesturing to your stomach with both hands.

The train has derailed. The heat flushed to your cheeks, red as the hot coals that fueled the steaming locomotive. Your glassy eyes stare at him with blurry vision, but you refuse to blink away until he speaks. The words you spewed were so harsh, it hurt you to say them.

His hand on your shoulder drops to his lap and the muscles of his jaw twitch as he tries to hold his tongue.

“You forget I was alone too,” Arthur responds plainly, attempting to hide the wound you opened in him, and he steps off the wagon. You’re left there on that high perch of the wagon seat, watching him walk the rest of the way to camp. He turns to his horse, unsaddled, and readies her to leave.

The dust and flames of the derailment settles around you, but the hot coals still burn. You were speaking in such anger that you had essentially blacked out in your hot fury.

_What just happened?_

Left alone again, the sobs sputter out of you. You sit with your head in your hands, sobbing uncontrollably. Afraid and alone, the feeling of dread washes over you and you can’t shake it off. Arthur refuses to look back at you while he mounts his horse and rides out of camp, his chest constricting.

Both of you are afraid, and neither of you know what’s the right thing to do.

————

_I ran away like a coward, again. Only this time, I really am afraid._

_(Y/N) and I got into a fight. Lot like the fights me and Mary would get into._

_I still miss her. Guess I always will. But now I feel my heart is torn in two. Mary holds one while (Y/N) holds the other. I never thought I’d feel love again after what happened with me and Mary.  
But (Y/N) told me she loved me and now I’m afraid. More afraid now than 9 months ago when she told me she was pregnant. More afraid than knowing the baby’s gonna come any moment.  
What am I gonna do? Will I screw it up again like I did with Mary?_

_Do I love her? Guess I always have, in a way. I just don’t want our baby to end up like us._

_Our baby._

_I don’t want to lose it, but I know Thomas and Christine will give it a much better home than we ever could. I hope (Y/N) can see that._

It had been a few days since you’ve seen Arthur leave. It was common for him to run off from camp to stew and fester on his own. It happened quite a bit when he’d fight with you, John, or even Mary.  
But this time you felt you truly hurt him.

You stand at the food supply wagon mindlessly chopping vegetables. While Grimshaw ordered you to stay on bed rest until the child comes, sitting around and waiting has made you stir-crazy. You didn’t want to be left alone to your thoughts. So, you decide to busy your anxious mind by doing the most mundane of tasks.

Your shoes lay abandoned on the ground nearby and you stand barefoot on the soft, dry grass. Your feet had become so swollen, that wearing your boots had become quite too painful. Walking barefoot gave you the slight relief you needed.

That relief was short lived due to the sudden wetness you feel trickle down your legs.

 _Good god, am I peeing myself?_ You wonder. The book Grimshaw gave you did warn you about bladder leakage. But this didn’t feel like a leak, it felt as if your bladder burst.

But that’s strange, it didn’t feel like you had to pee. This felt…

_Oh no._

Your underthings are now soaked and you stand there, dumbfounded with a knife in your hand. You don’t even notice John walking towards you. He saw your vacant expression and wondered if you were alright, considering you’re standing there gripping the blade handle tightly as if you’re possessed.

He leans to one side, examining you just beyond arm’s length.

“(Y/N)? You alright?” John asks.

Your mind grows blank and your lips move involuntarily, “Get Miss Grimshaw.”

————————

“Arthur!” John’s voice calls through the trees. Birds fly above the branches into the sky and squirrels run up to the safety of the trees, all avoiding his thunderous yell. 

A large buck in the clearing jerks its head up in response, followed by his brood of does behind him. The herd of deer quickly turn and prance away as John’s horse rumbles through the woods in search of Arthur. 

“Dammit,” Arthur hisses, lowering his rifle from behind a tree. “What, Marston?” He yells behind him, ready to give him an earful on how long it took him to stalk that buck.

John abruptly slides his horse to a stop when he finds him, both he and his steed pant heavily. 

“It’s (Y/N),” John answers. “Arthur, it’s happening.”

Arthur’s eyes grow wide and dart across John’s face nervously, “What?”

He knows what John is insinuating, but he has to know for sure that it’s time.

“Didn’t you hear me?!” John shouts, “It’s happening! Dutch, Hosea, and Grimshaw are takin’ her to the doctor’s place. Everyone else is waitin’ at camp. Dutch sent me to fetch you.”

“Shit,” Arthur curses, looking around for his own horse. Despite his shrill whistles, his horse is nowhere to be seen.

“C’mon, Arthur. We ain’t got time!” John beckons, reaching a hand out to help him onto his horse.

———————-

“Breathe, honey. Breathe,” Miss Grimshaw soothes you in the back of the covered wagon. You lay on top layers of soft blankets and pillows to comfort you on the ride to the doctor’s. The contractions come by surprise every ten minutes, and you struggle to breathe through the pain.

You hear Dutch speak in Hosea’s ear, “I just don’t think it’s safe for her to be traveling like this. She should have stayed in camp.”

Before you can speak up, Miss Grimshaw shouts from above your head, “Do you wanna deliver this baby, Dutch?! ‘Cause I have just as much experience in this as you do!”

They never ceased to argue from the moment you all had left. Dutch was too worried to let you move, while Miss Grimshaw implored that you needed to see a real doctor to help with the delivery. Poor Hosea was stuck in the middle while you whined in pain, helpless.

Since the first contraction started, you were in a daze. You hardly remember sliding off the back of the wagon, or walking through the front doors of the office, or Dr. Birner and Christine leading you up the stairs to the large bedroom on the upper floor.

You’re laying there on the soft, goose-feather bed, following their orders and breathing through each head-splitting contraction. It was a pain you had never felt before. Sweat was beading down your forehead, occasionally dabbed away by a damp, cool cloth.

It was agonizing. How long could you endure this?  
Dr. Birner stood at the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on his watch to time your contractions. Each one felt like it lasted longer than the other. You felt them everywhere: an electric shock from your lower back, down your thighs, and circling back up towards your stomach.

Only a few minutes would pass until another contraction would arise. It felt endless.

Dr. Birner clasps his pocket watch shut and leans down close to you, his wife Christine dabbing your forehead with the cloth.

“Now, (Y/N),” he says gently, “When you feel the need to push…you push. Ok?”

 _This can’t be happening,_ you think to yourself.

“I can’t.” You cry. “No, no, no. I can’t do it.”

“Yes, you can. Trust me, dear. Breathe…and push.” Dr. Birner replies.

—————

John’s horse gallops as fast as her short legs can carry her. Oh, how Arthur wished he had taken your horse König with him instead. That magnificent thoroughbred could tear through the topography of the land and make it to town in record speed. But alas, he sits behind John on this little mare as it huffs and puffs along, trying its best to carry this weight and sprint across rocky creeks and leap over dead trees.

The horse barely slows as Arthur makes a desperate jump to the front door. He bursts through, nearly shattering the glass window as the door slams against the wall. He’s greeted with fearful looks from Hosea and Dutch, who sit and wait.

“Where is she?” Arthur asks, his chest heaving and skin covered in dust and sweat.

Neither of them answer. Hosea points a finger towards the stairs to Arthur’s right. A sudden scream of agony follows from above the ceiling. Without a word, Arthur bounds up the stairs, stopping at the oak wood door which shuts him out. Another louder scream cuts from behind the door, then suddenly a hushed silence. With heavy breaths, Arthur presses his ear to the door. He can’t make anything out. He hears frantic words from familiar voices, and an agonizing silence.

————

Dr. Birner grasps at the front of your knee and orders you to stop pushing, “Hold on, (Y/N).”

He examines and realizes something’s wrong. He orders Christine next to him and they feel your lower stomach. You feel a hard pain in your lower ribs, the pressure builds up as they massage around the area.

“The baby’s breech,” Dr. Birner states quietly, “We have to move it.”

Oblivious to what he means, you cry meekly, “W-what does that mean? Breech?” 

“It means your baby’s upside down, and we need to move it before it comes out,” he replies, nodding to Christine. She answers with an identical nod and moves her hands to your belly.

With an unwavering focus, Christine massages your belly. Her pressure is so deep it’s borderline painful and you struggle to hold back a wail.

————

Arthur paces from outside the door, the heel of his boots quietly thumping against the floor. Another agonizing scream breaks the silence and echoes from inside the bedroom. He jumps in surprise, holding himself against the wooden bannister. He stares at the dark grains of the wooden door, as if trying to see through it to what’s going on.

 _How long have you been in torture like this?_ He wonders.

The process becomes a cycle while Arthur waits helplessly outside the door. A few minutes would pass while you huff and puff to ready yourself, followed by intense grunting through clenched teeth. A loud, long cry of pain opens your lips and pierces through the air. Arthur can sense your pain through your choked, muffled sobs that soon follow.

Another insufferable silence follows the relieved breath you take after the final push.

From inside the room, there’s no sound. No infantile cry, no sighs of joyed relief. Nothing.

—————

“Doctor?” You ask from your spot on the bed.

Christine is kneeled beside you on the bed. “Thomas?” She asks, hoping for an answer. 

He holds the child in his arms and his face pales.

Why haven’t you heard anything?

The images of your nightmare flash back to memory. The black blood, the lifeless body.

 _Please, God. No._

Christine quickly hands him a cloth to wrap it in. Its skin is coated in a mixture of red and purple viscera that’s barely visible in the evening light. 

“C’mon. C’mon…” Thomas mutters. “C’mon, breathe.” He holds the baby, but still no sound of the life-giving breath of air. He turns it over on its stomach, resting on his forearm.  
Thomas draws the blanket away from its bare skin and rubs its back vigorously.

You see your newborn’s mouth gasp open as if trying to breathe in the life-giving air, but it struggles. 

_Please, please._

“Thomas,” you sob. You clench your eyes shut and hope this is just another bad dream. Another realistically painful bad dream.

——————

Arthur presses against the door, desperate to hear any sign of positive life from inside the room. He struggles to hear past the hammering of his heart within his chest. Again, he can only hear quiet muffles coming from the three of you. 

Suddenly, a new voice breaks the silence. A small, wet cry is greeted with sighs of relief and joyful laughs. Arthur’s heart flips with delight at the sound of your voice alongside the cries of your newborn child. He throws a fist into the air, maintaining his excitement silently outside the door and running his fingers through his damp hair. He returns to the door, pressing his forehead against the cool wood and letting out a deep sigh with a smile.

He nearly falls forward onto whomever opens it. 

It’s Dr. Birner. He greets Arthur with a surprised chuckle and abruptly closes the door behind him. Arthur only gets a glimpse of the child in your arms, bundled in white cloth and held against your chest. 

“Congratulations,” Dr. Birner tells him with a toothy smile. “It’s a boy.”

Arthur’s legs suddenly feel weak, and his knees nearly buckle under his weight. He looks to Dr. Birner with wide eyes. 

“A boy?” He repeats with shining eyes. The doctor confirms with a simple nod and a grin. 

Arthur clasps both hands against the doctor’s shoulders firmly, “Thank you, doctor. Thank you!” 

“You’re welcome,” he chuckles. “And please…call me Thomas.”

“Thomas,” Arthur repeats with a shaky voice. “Can I…can I see them?” He asks.

Before Thomas can respond, the door opens once more. Turning their heads, they see Christine poking out from behind the door. 

“Ah, Arthur. Just the man she wants to see.” she says cheerily. “Go right on in.” She steps out to let him pass through the dark doorway. 

Arthur quietly closes the door with a creak and tip-toes into the room, his footsteps slow and quiet.

You look to him in a daze, eyelids heavy from exhaustion. “Hey there, cowboy.” You jest weakly. 

He partially lays onto the bed beside you, his feet hanging off the side.

“How you feelin’?” He asks, placing an arm around your shoulders. You lay your head back on his arm, his large, solid bicep providing extra support.

“Everythin’ hurts. But holding him makes me forget it all.”

The babe in your arms has yet stirred, sleeping contently in the wrapped comfort of your arms. His face and body now clean and you breathe in his newborn scent.  
Arthur slowly reaches a hand to your baby’s face, gently caressing his soft head. He lightly runs a thumb across his supple cheek and the baby gurgles at his touch.

An awed question reaches his lips, “Have you uh, given him a name?”

“I’ve thought of a few,” you whisper. “Thought you could help me with that.”

He scoffs, “Don’t think I’d be much help. Can’t think of anythin’ good.”

You scoff at his remark. “Well, we could name him after someone. Like…your grandfather or mine.”

“Ain’t hardly known my grand-pappy. And I ain’t too keen on the name Alfonso from yers.”

You laugh, which leads to a sharp twinge of pain in your lower region. Like a sharp needle being poked into you, making you hiss. With your eyes clenched, you don’t notice Arthur going into a small panic.

“You alright?” He whispers, scootching closer and gripping you tighter.

Eyes still cinched tight and your lips pursed you nod, “Mm-hmm. I’ll be fine.”

“Ya sure? You need me to get ya anythin’?” He inquires.

“I’m fine. It’ll get better, in time…’s not like I can go right back to work after pushin’ this little guy out.” You point your chin at the little bundle.

“I know. I just—I worry ‘bout ya.” He confesses. “I wanna help.”

A small silence lingers between you and you’re left wondering to yourself if he truly wants to help you.

A tiny hush brushes past Arthur’s lips, “I’m sorry…for everythin’. I shouldn’t have left you like that.”

Watching your son sleep in your arms, you reply, “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have said all those things. It’s just—I’m afraid.” You finally turn your head to look up to Arthur, who looks at you with such pain in his eyes. So much confliction lies behind those blue lights that sparkle in the moonlight.

“I know,” he says, “Me too.”

The two of you spend the next hour doting on your little man, thinking up names on what to call him. While you did have some already in mind, it became harder than you thought it’d be. Suddenly, those handsome names you picked out just didn’t fit him right. He’s too stunning for such names. He needs a good fit—a strong name. You had narrowed it down to two before Christine walked in to check on you.

“You look like you could use some rest,” she states, walking over to your side of the bed. “How about I take him? And you get yourself some sleep?” She asks.

You hesitate, worried about leaving your baby alone. You do trust Christine, but you’re afraid to let him go.

“Trust me,” she consoles, “You’re going to need it…the both of you.”

Nodding your head in agreement, you lift your baby to her and transfer him to her arms. As you finally lay back into the pillow, the exhaustion takes full effect. You struggle to keep your eyes open as you watch her walk out the door. The long white blanket hangs from her arm until she disappears behind the door.

Arthur’s left conflicted with whether he should leave you alone to sleep, or stay by you. The decision is made for him though, as you curl up next to him and sleepily throw an arm across him. He looks down at you with a loving smile and watches you fall asleep. Your lips are slightly parted and a soft snore rumbles from your nose. He takes in the sight of your messy hair. Lucky for him, you didn’t see yourself in a mirror, otherwise you would’ve refused his visit, thinking you looked a mess. But he thinks you look beautiful: hair disheveled and cheeks still rosy from the exertion of labor.

He wiggles himself free to remove his dusty boots and dirty clothes, leaving him with his union suit. He draws the covers and slips in next to you, while you haven’t moved an inch in your deep sleep.

“Isaiah.” You mumble against Arthur’s shoulder, nearly startling him.

“Who?” He asks.

With closed eyes, you repeat, “Isaiah Morgan.”

Arthur’s lips stretch into a satisfied smile as he ponders the name.

“Isaiah Morgan.” He recites. Leaning his head back on the pillow, his eyelids quickly fall shut and the soothing weight of sleep envelops him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tough decision is left to our poor reader. Which path will she choose for Isaiah, and will that path lead to his happiness?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being so patient with me on this chapter, as I know you have been waiting for so long! This had been on hiatus for quite a while due to my struggles with constant obstacles in my personal life.  
> That, and you’ll soon see why these next chapters have caused me quite a bit of heartache and it was a struggle to finish it.
> 
> A big “thank-you” goes to @oodanijadeoo on Tumblr for beta-reading this chapter and giving such great, constructive feedback.

You leave the apartment above Dr. Birner’s office with reluctance, thinking back to that brief period you were recuperating.  
You were in a peaceful limbo. No worries, no anxious thoughts of the future. For one week, you lied there with your infant son, living in the moment. You basked in his cherubic glory and thought of nothing else. For all you knew, there was nothing beyond those four walls. Just you and Isaiah.

And it was perfect.

You remember feeling Arthur’s eyes on you. He’d visit once a day at the apartment and spend a few nights on the floor of your room, despite your small protests. While holding Isaiah in his arms after his feeding, you’d catch that particular look Arthur gave you. It was a look of uncertainty; a question begging to be asked.

That question tortures you both.

He didn’t want to ask it and you didn’t want to hear it, but you both knew it had to be said.

Now, you finally have the strength to walk and ride in the jostling wagon without pain. The reality of your situation soon returns as you lie in the wagon.  
Leaning back on the mattress that comfortably lines the bed of the wagon, you look over to Susan who sits by your side. She holds your infant son in the swaddle of a soft wool blanket, gently caressing his cheek with her index finger.

It’s not often you get to see Susan grow soft like this. Her life has been ridden hard and rough and it often shows in her moods. One can hardly blame her. She’s proven she’s come out of it stronger and more alive than any other woman on earth.

You envy her strength.

Swaying with the rolling wagon wheels on the trail, you replay the conversations in your head: Dutch, Arthur, Dr. Birner. All of them asking for a decision. All of them telling you what’s best.

 _Can any decision be the right decision?_ You wonder. 

.…

Arthur has become an enigma to you in these passing days, you realize. He often gives Isaiah attention and offers help whenever he can. But something deep down inside you gives you this cynical notion that he’s saving himself up. That he’s only doing these things and acting paternal to get you to trust him.

He’s going to have to play his cards soon, and he needs an ace.

You try to shake these thoughts away, but they soon return whenever Dutch checks on you both on numerous occasions.

“Has a decision been made between you two?” He would ask.

His check-ins are a now weekly occurrence. So often that you now avoid crossing his path so he won’t have a chance to bring it up.

You hope you could reply ‘no’ long enough that he’d soon give up. You’re too fearful to say what you truly want. And you know Dutch is not one to forget or give up.

But you truly hope this time he would.

However, you forget the one person Dutch could still corner and persuade to change this whole situation.

Arthur.

…

It’s three months to the day of Isaiah’s birth and you worry if you can finally breathe. You hope to continue with the routine of a child in the gang now that it’s been long enough; allow the members of the gang to grow attached. Little Isaiah grows stronger and more lovable each day. Even John has taken a liking to him.  
He approaches you and Isaiah sitting underneath a shady lean-to. You sit cross-legged on the blanket while supporting Isaiah in your hands. His little back lays on your forearms, with his soft head resting in your palms. The ruffled hem of his crisp, white baby gown cascades down your arm. The sun was so warm before you retreated to the shade. Through the light cotton, you can still feel a little sweat on his back from the desert heat.

“Can I hold him?” John asks meekly. He slowly drops to his knees before you and watches Isaiah curiously.

Looking up at John, you reply, “Sure. Make sure to support his neck, and watch his head.”

You adjust your baby in your arms and carefully transfer him to John, who fearfully holds him like holding a wounded animal. John keeps an elbow awkwardly high to support Isaiah’s head and you hold  
back a chuckle at the sight of him. The corner of his lip upturns into a nervous smile.

He catches you grinning at him and his face turns sour.

“What’s so funny?” He asks defensively.

You reply genuinely, “Nothing. Just…you look cute together.”

You watch as Isaiah babbles and attempts to grab at the strange young man holding him. His chubby legs kick and kick with such energy and excitement of seeing a new person.

John scoffs at your remark and opens his mouth to retort. Though he’s quickly distracted by Isaiah wiggling in his arms and he grows nervous at keeping him still.

“Uhhh,” John groans uncomfortably. “I think..oh shit, I’m gonna drop him.”

You giggle and quickly relieve John of his anxiety, fluidly scooping Isaiah from his stiff arms into yours.  
Isaiah babbles and squeals in your arms, testing his voice with his high pitches. The soothing rocking of your arms and the heat of the air settles his excitement and he soon grows weary.

For several minutes, you and John watch his eyelids slowly fall and rise every couple of seconds as he jerks himself awake, kicking a leg and trying his hardest not to sleep. He’d attempt this a few times until he could no longer fight it. The warmth and comfort of your body allows him to relax and finally sleep in your arms.

John sits cross-legged in front of you in silence, watching Isaiah fall into a deep sleep. He watches his little stubby fingers attempt to grip at your forearm tightly before relaxing.  
Moving his gaze up to your face, John notices your smile is gone and replaced with a forlorn look.

He asks quietly, “What’s wrong?”

The heavy weight of guilt grows in your chest and you lift your head with glassy eyes. As you break your attention away from Isaiah to John, your chin quivers and a rogue tear slides down your cheek. With a shaky breath, you answer.

“I’m afraid,” You say with a cracked voice. “I thought everything would be better once he’d be born but, I feel trapped.”

John looks to you with understanding. For the past few months, he’s watched you and Arthur struggle against each other. He had secretly grown proud of how strong you kept yourself under Arthur and Dutch’s pressure. He knows Arthur’s only reciting what Dutch tells him, never thinking for himself and that aggravates John. He thinks himself far younger than Arthur and yet so much more headstrong and independent. John had been watching you struggle with your options in silence and he worries you’ll choose one you’ll regret.

This is his opportunity to tell you what he thinks.

He attempts to console you, speaking quietly and honestly.

“Everyone loves him, (Y/N). I can see that.” He says.

Another tear escapes your eye, painting your cheek.

“It don’t seem to matter how much everyone loves him,” you croak. “What matters is what Dutch thinks and what kind of life he should have.”

“But your life’s been better since you joined. And mine. And Arthur’s!” John exclaims in a hush. “Don’t you think? What makes ‘im think we can’t give him the best life with us?”

John points to Isaiah who remains unstirred in your arms.

“Because we’re criminals, John.” You say with dread, letting Dutch’s repeated lectures finally sink in. 

“And who’s to say I won’t resent him later on? Treat him like my parents did me?”

Those last words tear into your heart like a jagged blade. Who’s to say you won’t inherit your parents awful temperament towards your child? Will you truly love him as he grows, or will you see him as just a mistake that took your freedom away?

John’s words grow heated in response to your self deprecation.

“Cause you’re not them, (Y/N),” he hisses through his teeth in frustration, “You’re better than them. I know you love Isaiah. Because if you didn’t, you’d leave him the first chance you get.”

He speaks bitterly in remembrance of his own childhood. The grief from loss and abandonment is all too familiar to him. He stares at Isaiah with his dark eyes glowing in a mix of resentment and woe. He knows from experience that little Isaiah is too fragile to live and grow without the love of a mother. Or a father.

“Just promise me one thing, will ya?” He asks, his own voice cracked and quiet.

Staying silent, you look into his eyes and nod.

“Don’t send him to an orphanage…please. Find him a family. A _good_ one.” He confides solemnly. His head droops low and he lightly fumbles with the tip of his boot.

“Of course, John…” You assure him.

With his head still held low, John reaches forward and grasps at Isaiah’s hand. He holds the tiny hand in between his thumb and index finger, rubbing at the top of Isaiah’s hand with his thumb. Isaiah remains asleep while he curls his little fingers over John’s finger, holding onto him tightly.

“I promise.” You whimper through quiet tears.

…

The sun is dropping from its high noon perch and its heat begins to cool into the late afternoon. You stand by the food wagon, behind the work table with a variety of vegetables laid before you. Carrots and parsnips in orange, purple and white and fresh, crisp celery lay in bright contrast against the dark and  
scratched wooden table.

Your heart remains sunken from your gloomy exchange with John, and the mundane task of prepping supper has left your mind open to racing thoughts of what-if’s and should-I’s.

You barely hear the familiar footsteps belonging to the one who shares those thoughts with you. Both of your minds are unknowingly linked with troubled ruminations. The heavy strides step forward to you while your head remains low and your eyes focused on the rations before you. The tip of his boots come into view at the corner of your eyes, but you don’t react.

“(Y/N),” Arthur greets with hesitation, “We need to talk.”

“About what?” You ask, sensing his mood and growing on edge.

You already know what he wants to talk about, but you want to hear him say it. You want him to reflect on the terrible request before speaking.

Arthur fidgets with a carrot on the wooden table, rolling it back and forth on the un-level surface with his dirty hands. The speed of the rolls grow with your mutual irritance. He feels the tips of his ears flushing red. This decision hurts him too, but he hopes to make it quick before it can get worse. Never has he made such a paramount decision like this. The life he was thrust into at a young age taught him to react, to not waste time with decisions of morality, only survival.

In the past several years, he often left these choices to Dutch, because the man would take it upon himself to do so. This was something that Arthur had grown used to. Something he trusted.

 _Leave it to me, son. I’ll think of something._ Dutch’s words echo in Arthur’s ears.

But how can Arthur tell you? Standing before him with a knife in your hands, how can he tell you that while he doesn’t like it either, it’s actually for the best?

The knife in your hand hits against the cutting board a little harder with each slice.

Watching you carefully, Arthur speaks, “I wanna talk about us.”

You involuntarily crease your eyebrows in confusion, your eyes squinting and still focusing on the vegetables. The smell of boiling beef stock in the pot next to you would’ve made you sick just a few months ago before Isaiah was born, but you’re too irritated to care now.

Neither of you wanted to cross this road again. But there’s only so many detours you can take before you reach the fork again.

Your voice slices into him like the knife through the carrot, which you snatch from his light grip.

“What makes you think there’s an ‘us’?” You say bitterly. Your tone is a little more than a hurried breath, but is loud in your heart.

Ignoring your bite, Arthur rests his hands on the table and leans his weight forward on them. He drops his chin low, watching your hands work quickly in repetitive movements.

“I wanna know what your plan is. For Isaiah.” He says.

The knife stops in your hand and your grip tightens against the handle.

“It’s too early, Arthur. He’s only three months old yet.” You say, steadying the frightened tremble in your voice.

He leans himself further over the table, bringing his face closer to yours but you keep your gaze low to the chopped vegetables, only feeling his breath on your forehead as he speaks.

“I know, but when? The longer we wait, the harder it’s gonna be.” Arthur speaks in a distinct whisper, meant for your ears only and no other.

If your thoughts hadn’t been racing, you could’ve detected the fear and reluctance in his voice as he spoke. You could’ve noticed the tremors in his hands and fingers, left empty to tremble in fear without an item to fidget with. You could’ve seen the tension in his broad shoulders growing stiff at the emotional weight that bears down on them.

“I don’t know when, Arthur.” You spit, “I can’t think with everyone breathing down my neck like this.”

“But you ain’t alone—“

“Oh, I ain’t?” You finally draw your gaze to him and stare into his eyes with a painful glare. “I don’t think you understand. You may be his father but, in the end it’s _my_ decision to make. Not anyone else’s, regardless of what they think.”

“Just lemme help,” Arthur pleads.

“I think you’ve done enough,” you reply bitterly, “You’re a father now, Arthur. Start actin’ like one.”

Your words flood his ears and leave an awful dry pit in the back of his throat. He remains silent, allowing your statement to pierce him and the venom to fill his veins. It makes its way to his heart, filling it in each painful contraction.

You finish your harsh words, “Now leave me alone.”

Arthur complies and turns away. He takes his first step to leave before stopping himself.

With a slight pivot of his head, he utters, “Y’know, you keep this up and soon you _will_ be alone with no one else to blame but yerself.”

…

Three weeks pass and you refuse to start the conversation again, despite Arthur’s pressing. Deep down you wonder, is it selfish of you to want to keep Isaiah? To keep Arthur tied to you this way?

You would never try to keep Arthur leashed to camp like a dog; to hold him hostage in a false sense of domesticity. You’re more than willing to raise this child on your own. Even if Arthur had this sudden change of heart and wanted to be rid of his mistake. You at least, are mature enough to step up to the plate, you tell yourself.

It’s been a few days since you’ve seen Arthur and John. They had been sent by Hosea to follow a tip about a train carrying payroll for a silver mine. After your argument with Arthur, you found yourself distancing from him again. Which you hated and it caused you much pain, but you forced yourself to; to avoid hurting Arthur again with such unkind words.

Laying Isaiah down to bed in your tent, you step out to walk across camp, towards Hosea’s tent. You see him sitting in his chair in front of his large tent, reading a book like always. An oil lamp sits beside him on a small table, cascading him in a soft, golden glow. Your thoughts remained troubled lately, and you hope Hosea would preach some wise words to calm your worries.

You hear hushed voices from behind one of the supply wagons and slow your pace, eyes slowly peering to the covered wagon. You stop with your feet planted when you recognize them.

“She’s still nursing, Dutch.” A voice whispers. Miss Grimshaw. “It’s too early to separate them.” She says. You detect apprehension in her tone.

“I know that Susan. But think about this. We’re getting too comfortable here and the law is startin’ to notice. We’ve got to move now, and we can’t travel with a baby. It’s too dangerous.” A deep, authoritative voice persuades.

_Dutch._

He continues, “She needs to think about that. We need to think about the rest of the gang. We can’t afford any distractions.”

“But—“

“No. Exceptions cannot be afforded now. This is the safest option…for everyone.”

“And Arthur?”

A pause lingers.

“He’ll understand.”

Stepping swiftly and quietly, you turn to retreat to your tent. Closing the flaps of the entrance, you sob quietly into your hands. A few short cries are muffled by your palms. Your heart hammers in your chest and its beats roar loudly in your ears. After a moment, you release yourself with a deep, shaky breath.

_We’re leaving? No, no, no, no. Not now. Not right now._

_This can’t be happening._

Your cot gently creaks as you lie on your side and watch Isaiah. He sleeps soundly and unstirred in the little bassinet next to you. Earlier this week, you were persuaded by Hosea to have your tent moved closer to Arthur’s instead of near the perimeter, away from everyone else. Even though you were oblivious, Hosea could see the wanting in Arthur’s eyes as he watched you and Isaiah together. Arthur wants to help. He truly does. Unfortunately, you were blind to it.

“Closer to his father,” Hosea’s words repeat in your thoughts. “Make him get up with you when Isaiah wakes in the middle of the night. Don’t think you gotta do this all by yourself.”

A swirl of voices and past conversations enter and exit your anxious mind. You try so hard to silence them, but they break through the door of your conscience and demand to be heard.

Before long, the demanding voices exhaust you and you fall into a troubled sleep.

_You’re walking along a red sand beach. The grains of sand give under your weight and hold onto the shapes of your feet and toes. The tide is low and the dry beach stretches out for miles towards the horizon. The cold white caps of the sea lap gently in the distance. The sky is bleak and gray, and the cold air bites at your exposed skin. You move to draw your shawl closer, but find you’re wearing only a thin, white nightgown made of silk. You find yourself standing alone in the middle of the dry ocean bed, the growing tide laps at your feet. Looking down at your bare feet in the sand, you see your pregnant belly. It’s so large, you can barely see your toes._

_A voice calls behind you. It sounds so far away and distorted, you can barely make it out. You want to turn to see who’s calling, but you’re stuck facing the horizon._

_Your body feels like it’s stuck in a vat of molasses. Every movement of your muscles is slowed and you’re snapped back to your original stance when you try to break its grip. The unidentifiable hold on you is forcing you to watch the growing tide as the water rises higher and higher. The voice behind you grows louder and louder, its call becoming clearer. It’s a familiar voice shouting your name, and it begs you to return to shore. You desperately want to run to the voice, to be wrapped in its warm embrace, its rich timbre filling your ears, but the hold on you refuses to break._

_A white-capped wave rolls towards you, high as the cliffs behind you. The sound of the approaching wave is deafening, like an oncoming train. It muffles the screams and hollers of the voice behind you.  
You’re knocked back as the wave crashes into you like a wall of stone. A sudden pain jolts like an electric current in your stomach, and something slips out between your legs. You move to grab it with both hands, but it slips out of your grip.  
Still submerged in the dark waters, you open your eyes and see Isaiah sinking below you. His cries echo in the water. You try to scream his name, but the water fills your lungs and no sound can escape your throat. Swimming further and further down to catch him, he slips out of your grip and you find he’s sinking so much faster._

_Reaching your hand out, he seems so close. Just a little more and you can grab his heel. A rough hand grips at your arm, pulling you up towards the surface, away from your baby. You claw at its grip, but it’s holding you so tightly that it digs painfully deep into your muscles and bone. Gold rings adorn the fingers of the hand, with coarse black hair on its knuckles. Screaming and thrashing, you bite and claw at the hand, but its burning grip doesn’t give. Looking back down into the abyss, you can faintly see a speck of your infant child, sinking further down. His cries are still loud in your ears, amplified in the water._

_Suddenly, the hand pulls and you break the surface with a deep gasp._

“No!” You cry, throwing your hands up and swinging wildly. Your palm makes contact with warm skin, and you feel a slight sting in your hand as you slap whoever’s holding you.

A booming voice curses above you, “Dammit!”

Opening your tear-filled eyes, you see Dutch holding a hand to his temple, rising up off his knees and angrily walking out of your tent. Bewildered, you look around your cramped tent and see Miss Grimshaw kneeling by your cot, trying to calm you down with sweet words. She shushes you and holds your head in her hands, your hair feels wet with sweat against her gentle fingers.

You notice the bassinet beside her is empty and you nearly leap off your cot, trying to push Miss Grimshaw away.

“Where is he?” You frantically ask, “Where’s Isaiah?”

Miss Grimshaw raises her hands up, “He’s fine, (Y/N). Arthur’s got him.”

“Why?” You ask, nearly crying in fear. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Grimshaw answers, “It’s okay. He’s okay. You were just having a nightmare, sweetie.”

Your chest heaves in panic. The images of your nightmare are still vivid in every blink of your eyelids. You struggle to stay standing as you become dizzy, raising a hand to your head.

Miss Grimshaw takes notice and lightly wraps her arms around you.

“It’s alright. Everything’s alright.” She soothes. “Let’s just lie back down. Hmm?”

Suddenly, a sputtered cry comes from outside your tent. Instinctively, you move to run to the source of the sound, until Grimshaw holds you back.

“It’s alright dear. You just rest now…I’ll go get ‘em.” She reassures you.

Your anxious breathing refuses to subside until Arthur steps in with Isaiah in his arms. He’s cozily wrapped in his white cotton blanket, hungrily fussing in Arthur’s thick arms. You reach out and silently ask for your child, to which Arthur grants. He seamlessly transfers little Isaiah from his arms to yours. 

Grateful for the familiar weight in your arms, your panic finally begins to subside. Tears roll down your cheeks and you hold back a sob, kissing Isaiah’s warm forehead.

He continues to fuss and cry until you unbutton the front of your nightgown and drop a shoulder to draw him to your exposed breast.  
You notice Arthur shift uncomfortably at the sight and move to exit your tent.

“Wait, Arthur. It’s ok.” You stop him.

Standing by the entrance, he looks to you and asks, “You sure?”

You nod and pat the empty spot beside you with your free arm. Arthur still hesitates.

“It’s not like you haven’t seen them before.” You remind him.

Arthur gives a tense shrug and responds, “I know but, this is different.”

“Please, Arthur?”

Arthur nods and sits besides you with a tense sigh. He looks over and watches his son suckle at your breast with his tiny yet plump lips. Isaiah’s eyes close while you and Arthur hear the occasional breath through his little nose as he greedily feeds off your nipple.

You finally look over to Arthur and whisper, “Did I wake everyone up?”

Embarrassed for you, Arthur nods and runs his fingers through his thick hair.

“Yeah…guess you had a bad dream. Isaiah was cryin’ and Dutch and Grimshaw were tryin’ to wake you up. All of a sudden, I’m standin’ outside with ’im and I hear you give Dutch a big slap.”

He wraps an arm behind you and rubs his hand on your shoulder. With a small chuckle, he says, “Ain’t seen him get that red in a while. You musta hit him pretty good.”

Wiping the lingering tears from your eyes with your free hand, you smile, “Yeah. My hand still kind of stings.”

Arthur shifts closer to you, wrapping a corner of Isaiah’s blanket over his little bare feet.

“You wanna talk about it?” He asks gently, hoping to ease the tension.

Normally, you had come to Arthur to talk of your dreams or nightmares. He enjoyed deciphering them with you, figuring out what they could mean or what would cause them. But the image of your baby sinking into the black waters makes your heart feel like it was pierced with hot iron. You want to erase it from your mind.

Blinking away a stray tear, you answer, “No. I just wanna forget about it…Will you stay with me though?”

You feel so pitiful in asking, but you’re afraid to go back to sleep. You don’t want to return to that red beach.

You look into Arthur’s tired eyes and silently plead. He grasps your free hand beside him and looks over to Isaiah, whose lips have now released your nipple and remain agape as he sleeps soundly.  
Arthur nods and offers to take Isaiah from your arms. He gingerly places him in the bassinet while you button up your nightgown. Returning to your cot, he lays behind you and pulls you close. His warm arm wraps around you and he holds your hand in his, intertwining his fingers in yours. He slips his other arm beneath your neck, offering it as a pillow.  
You let out a shaky breath and allow Arthur’s warmth envelope you. His hot breath upon the back of your neck soon lulls you back into a peaceful, dreamless slumber.

The morning sun has not yet risen as you wake. Through the crack of your tent flaps, the sky is barely lightened to an early morning hue of sapphire, cascading everything on earth with its deep color. Leaving Arthur and Isaiah to sleep behind you, you quietly step through the canvas entrance of your remaining solitude. An unease remains buried in your heart from last night as you step back out to the outside world.

A decision has to be made. Today.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whelp, this is it. Our reader makes a difficult decision. It’s inevitable that someone gets hurt with either choice she makes. Will she keep Isaiah? Leave the gang with him? Get ready for a world of hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings marked with ** for those with panic attack/anxiety triggers. The end is marked with ...

“And you’re sure this is what you want to do?” Thomas Birner asks, his tone clear.

He sits across from you in their modest dining area in the upstairs apartment. Wood paneling in a deep cherry color surrounds you in the small room, giving you a sense of cozy security. An emerald green rug sits underneath the dining room set, extending beyond the neatly organized wooden chairs that match the walls. 

Your eyes dart down and peer at the exquisite detail of the rug underneath the toes of your black leather boots. 

“Yes,” you answer softly. “I’m sure of it...It’s what’s best.” You return your gaze to Thomas’ large, chestnut eyes. It’s like staring into the eyes of a living doll: lids blinking automatically with long, dark lashes and white light reflecting off their glassy surface. 

Hands together and fingers interlaced upon the polished table, you remain seated in your chair across from him. Christine sits to your right at the end of the square dining table, remaining silent with a solemn look. She looks so clean and polished with her light, sandy hair neatly held into a simple bun with a silver brooch. Her pale blouse with its intricate lace and her long, dark skirt are freshly pressed with clean lines and minimal wrinkles. 

Thomas asks again, “And the father, Arthur? He’s sure of this too?” His voice carries the same comforting empathy he gave you the first time you met him, all those months ago. It’s been a year now since you’ve first stepped into that office. A year of burden and upset; months of child-bearing followed by the subsequent birth and development of your son who is still unaware of his place in the growing world. 

“Yes,” you reply bluntly. Your interlaced fingers tighten and your knuckles turn white. 

You begin to explain, “Y’see, Arthur’s back home, packing our things. We’ve...decided to move. That’s why he couldn’t come.” 

Thomas and Christine remain silent while you speak. 

“We’re sort of in a hurry. Got quite the caravan traveling with us and time is of the essence.” You recite as if you’ve practiced these words on your way to town over and over again, forcing yourself to believe them. 

“We understand.” Thomas replies. 

Christine’s voice finally enters the conversation with a gentle air, like the breath of a fresh spring morning. 

“Thank you for coming to us,” she says, “It truly means a lot.”

With a tender touch, she reaches to you and places her hand upon yours. She gently taps your hands a few times with the faintest of touches. Her manicured nails are shiny and polished in contrast to your brittle, stained nails. 

You tighten your lips into a polite smile that quickly fades. The two of them almost simultaneously follow your movements as you stand and step towards the entryway near the stairs. 

They step behind you in line as you walk to the top step before turning back to them. Your jaw feels tight and your face droops wearily. 

There they stand before you, the image of a perfect couple. Beautiful, loving, kind, financially stable. They both look at you with sympathy in their eyes. A rectangular window sits high on the wall behind them down the end of the hallway. The rays of sunlight shine through the glass and break upon the crowns of their heads. You see the light cascade their heads like heavenly halos.

Oh, how you envy them. You swallow the jealousy that threatens to choke your throat like burning bile erupting from your stomach. 

“We’ll...see you soon?” Christine asks.

“Of course,” you rasp. With fluttering blinks of your eyelids, you turn to descend the stairs. Each step of your boots creates a hollow echo against the wood. 

Time begins to slow as you reach the end of the stairs and cross the doorway of their office.  
The air clears once you step outside into the open, dusty street. You breathe a ragged sigh and mount your horse. The red dust speckles his ebony legs as he stands alone on the dirt road, hitched to a wooden post. 

Your body sits in the saddle and moves fluidly in time with König’s gentle canter out of town. The two of you ride as one being; synced and sensitive to each other’s moods. He breathes with a tense huff that mirrors yours, feeling the stress that tightens the muscles in your legs and arms. It stays with you like an awful venom from a snakebite, coursing its way through you both as you ride back to camp. 

You see the familiar tent post belonging to the tall shelter of Dutch. Its towering pitch stands out amongst the surrounding tents and juniper trees. The white canvas is kept taught and the fabric ripples minutely in the peaceful wind. 

Dutch is leaning against the post with a thick cigar in his fingers, bringing it to his lips. He blinks at the sound of hoof beats and turns his head to watch you enter camp. A small puff of smoke escapes his lips and billows in front of his face before fading into the breeze. 

He knows where you have gone and scans your face that hides beneath your wide-brimmed hat. He looks for any sign of emotion that could tell him what you’ve done. 

Keeping your head held down, you walk past his tent.

His deep baritone doesn’t make you falter this time when he asks you.

“So, have you finally made a—”

“Yes, Dutch. I have.” You interrupt bitterly without hesitation, still walking to your tent where Isaiah remains sleeping. The flaps of your tent are now drawn back like curtains, tied in place and welcoming you inside. 

Arthur sits upright on your cot and watches over Isaiah. With one hand, he places his hat upon his head and stares into the makeshift bassinet. It’s as if he’s hypnotized by this small child of his. Arthur slowly places other hand on the edge of the bassinet, gently rocking it. 

“How is he?” You ask softly to avoid awaking Isaiah. 

Arthur turns to you in a mild startle. He hadn’t heard your approaching footsteps, only the light breathing from his sleeping son. He looks up at you, eyeing your face and noticing your pensive sadness. 

“He’s fine,” Arthur answers with a stillness, “Still hasn’t woke up...Where’d you run off to so early?”

“To town,” you state, pushing your thumbs beneath the wide belt that holds your skirt in place. “I had an errand to run.” Avoiding eye contact, you instead look over the features of Arthur’s face: his structured nose, plump lips, his marked chin, and sharp jaw. Short stubbles cover his lower face, like a dark shadow. 

Arthur stares at you in silence, as if trying to understand. He’s sure he does, but there remains a glimmer of hopeful doubt that what he hears behind your words is not true.

“So...you heard the news, then?” He asks, “That we’re leavin’?”

“Yeah, I heard.” You reply coolly, maintaining your composure. 

Arthur opens his mouth to speak, but is interrupted by a whimpering cry from the bassinet. Isaiah wakes hungrily with his cry growing louder, bringing his balled fists up to his chubby cheeks that quickly turn red. 

Taking your cue, you step forward past Arthur and gingerly scoop Isaiah from his little bed.  
Arthur watches you silently, desperately wanting to say more but, his courage to speak is now lost. He can only watch you and Isaiah, holding onto each other as the baby nurses. Every day, Arthur watches you and feels racked with guilt. 

Picking your head up, you finally look into Arthur’s eyes. The pair of you hold so much misery and pain in your eyes. So much so that perhaps the faintest touch could cause you both to collapse into an external sorrow. 

The uncomfortable silence is broken by your voice.

“Would you mind helping me with something, Arthur?” You ask. 

Maintaining eye contact, he answers, “Anythin’.” 

He answers with such eagerness; willing to do your bidding if it meant he could be near you and have your attention. 

“I need to go back to town...With—”

“Arthur! (Y/N)!” Dutch’s booming voice interrupts, startling the three of you inside your tent. 

Your heart beats heavily while Isaiah startles in your arms but promptly returns to feeding. You turn to hide your exposed breast from Dutch as he steps closer to the tent. 

Dutch abruptly stops once realizing, the dirt sliding underneath his feet.

“Oh! My apologies.” Dutch says, averting his eyes from you and looking down to Arthur who remains seated on your cot. “Arthur, I need to speak with you.” 

Arthur’s heart also hammers wildly in his chest, feeling a different emotion. He hides his annoyance under his hat while his steely eyes look up from beneath the low brim. He remains seated on his spot. 

“What is it?” Arthur asks, keeping his voice low. 

Dutch speaks urgently, “I need you to ride out with me. I know of a new place we can go to...A new home. And I need you with me to check it out...Make sure there’s no trouble with the ‘previous tenants’.” 

Arthur looks up at Dutch with an angry look, but pulls back the tone of his voice. 

“Why me? Take John with ya instead.” He talks back.

Looking over your shoulder, you watch Dutch’s reaction towards Arthur’s attitude. His thick eyebrows rise in surprise and quickly furrow in a soft anger.

He speaks lowly, “He is coming, as a matter of fact. I need you both. Now c’mon.” 

Dutch turns to leave before Arthur interjects. 

“But I already promised to help (Y/N) with somethin—”

A cold stare interrupts him, followed by Dutch’s unyielding tone of voice.

“(Y/N) will be fine,” he cuts quickly, “There’s other people here to help her and Isaiah. Now _I_ need you, son. So hurry up!”

His voice rises and cracks at his final utterance. With a wave of his hand, he leaves to saddle his horse at the edge of camp. 

Arthur breathes a heavy sigh, looking up at you sympathetically before reluctantly rising off the cot. 

“I’m sorry.” he says to you, giving you a quick glance over his shoulder as he steps out. 

You remain standing, holding Isaiah in your arms and feeling a swirl of emotions rise in your chest. Anger. Fear. Resentment. They bubble and boil in your chest, constricting your heart and filling your lungs. 

You watch Arthur pack his things into his leather bag: his journal, a couple cans of food, and his canteen. He grabs his bedroll and steps to attach it to the back of his saddle. 

Now awake with a full belly, Isaiah kicks his hanging feet as you hold him upright against your side. He’s able to support his own head now and his eyesight has improved these past few months. As you walk closer to Arthur’s open tent, Isaiah watches him walk to his horse. He appears intrigued by Arthur’s movements and the sound of his clinking items. 

Arthur tightens the girth on his horse’s saddle when he hears a squealing babble from Isaiah behind him. He turns to look at you both, standing there before him. His heart swells as he watches Isaiah smile and squeal at him.  
Isaiah reaches out to Arthur with his chubby hand and points with a short finger, while the other hand is gripped on your shoulder. A gentle breeze wisps the short, feathery hairs on his little head. 

With his long strides, Arthur walks to you. His eyes dart back and forth between your eyes and Isaiah’s. Yours appear glassy while Isaiah’s remain wide with a blissful innocence. Arthur reaches a rough, calloused hand up to Isaiah’s head, softly brushing against his silky hair before resting a thumb upon his supple cheek. 

Your eyes never leave Arthur’s face, watching him smile and whisper to Isaiah. 

“I’ll see you soon,” he tells you both, his eyes fixed on his son.

Your voice cracks when you finally speak, “Arthur, I...” 

His gaze slowly rises to you, watching you struggle. The words are caught in your throat as you look into those blue eyes. You hope he understands what you’re trying to say. 

He places a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“It’ll be okay. I’ll be back soon.” he says, turning away to mount his horse. He reluctantly steps into the stirrup and effortlessly hoists himself with his back to you. With a turn of his head, he looks over his shoulder and tips his hat to you before spurring his horse to follow Dutch. 

You stand there, watching him fall behind John and Dutch as they ride out. Soon, their figures shrink in the distance and disappear into the red hills. All that’s left of them is the subtle trail of dust lingering behind them. 

A pair of light footsteps approach you and a calm, nasally voice speaks from behind. 

“I take it Arthur won’t be going with you.”

You turn to see Hosea standing straight with his arms behind his back. His eyes crinkle and his lips turn into a small smile at Isaiah’s babbling response. The smile falters at the sight of your glassy eyes and silent demeanor. He breathes a deep and troubled sigh. A silent moment passes as he recalls your troubled thoughts you spoke to him early this morning. He’s grateful for your trust in him. It’s a gift very few people give him. 

“You sure you want to do this?” He asks you calmly. 

You remain silent and can only nod in response, keeping your steeled composure. You hand your infant son to Hosea and move to your tent that is pitched just a few strides away. Hosea’s soft hands hold Isaiah in a firm yet gentle grip.

You enter your tent to open the drawer of your nightstand and retrieve a long, dark sling. It’s navy blue and made of a soft woolen fabric, at least three feet long and a foot wide. It cascades down your arm and its hem barely brushes against the ground. 

Standing outside, Hosea stares into Isaiah’s eyes. They’re so much like Arthur’s; bright blue orbs that turn green in the sunlight. A sparkle of amber shines near his pupils, like a lonely flame buoyed out in the lonely sea.

Turning back to him with the long cloth in hand, you let the moment pass in silence, allowing Hosea to hold him in his arms one final time. He looks so comfortable, being a grandfather. The tiny crow’s feet emerging at the corner of his eyes wrinkle tightly as he gazes into Isaiah’s radiant eyes. Tiny fingers grasp at Hosea’s chin and rub against his freshly shaved skin, and Hosea reacts with a broken chuckle. He kisses the little palm at his lips tenderly, breathing in Isaiah’s soft touch. 

Hosea senses your eyes on him and looks to you. The subtle joy on his face is replaced with a stoic look. He finally hands your infant son to you and helps you wrap him onto your back.

The long sling crosses your chest in an ‘x’ and wraps around your waist, holding Isaiah close against your back in a tight cocoon. He rests his cheek against your back while his bare legs hang freely on the sides. 

With a light hand against your lower back, Hosea helps you step into the stirrup of your saddle and bring yourself up onto your horse. His hands firmly hold you from behind and guide you up safely as you set yourself upon your tall steed. 

The two of you ride off into the same red hills, towards that familiar home where Isaiah was born.

...

The front door remains closed and locked, with only the opportunity to glance through the painted letters on the large window pane. Behind the closed door stand the four of you, secluded in the small waiting area with the only source of light coming from the high sun shining through the bay windows. The rays of light burst through in sharp angles, separated from each other by the crossed muntins that support each pane of glass. Speckles of dust float freely in the bright glare. 

“Write to us, will you?” Christine asks, “We’ll always keep in touch...” 

Her voice cracks slightly. Whether by joy or sympathy, you don’t know. Thomas stands by her side in silence, his hands deep in his pockets. The chain of his pocket watch clinks softly as he fumbles his fingers within the layer of fabric. 

Christine’s eyes begin to water, “...let you know how he’s doing.”

You smile lightly at her generosity, honored to still be a small part of his life.

“Yes. I’d like that,” You croak, “very much.” 

Isaiah remains sleeping in Christine’s arms. The gentle ride to town coupled with your warmth quickly put him to sleep. He lays bundled in the navy-colored sling, held close to Christine’s body. His head rests in the crook of her elbow and his cheeks are flushed from the heat of the sun. 

Your heart races wildly as you lean in to kiss Isaiah on his supple cheek. Perhaps the final kiss you’ll ever give him. Your teeth bite your lower lip as punishment of the thought. The absence of his weight in your arms, in your lap...it’s almost unbearable. The emptiness weighs heavier on you than the weight you carried those nine months. Heavier than Isaiah’s growing body that you would rest on your hip. 

He stirs gently at your kiss and begins to whimper.

“Goodbye, my son.” You whisper, and look to Thomas and Christine. They look to you with unspoken sympathies while you turn away. 

Hosea stands by the door, hat in his hands. His lips are pursed tightly and his bloodshot eyes look ahead to the street as he opens the door, allowing you to step out first. It’s as if the small town has been abandoned just for this moment. The street is empty and quiet without a soul around. Your horses’ heads stay low, mirroring your moods. Their reins lay unhitched over their withers, evidence of a swift meeting that requires no securement to a post. 

Behind you, Isaiah wakes and sputters out a cry. Unyielding to his call, you mount your horse and keep your gaze on Hosea who does the same. Looking to him and only him is the only thing keeping you anchored and unchanged.  
Hosea gives you a gentle nod and leads the way with a subtle kick of his heels. Your vision blurs from the tears that fill your eyes. Isaiah’s cries grow louder and more frantic as he watches you ride away, but you force yourself not to turn. 

You don’t watch him reach out to you. You don’t see him struggle in Christine’s arms. You don’t look back to him desperately flexing his little fingers as he tries to grasp at you, unable to comprehend the fact he cannot reach you despite you being in his field of view. He fails to comprehend the distance between you two. You’re just there, right there in front of him, but you will not turn back to him. He cannot know why you are leaving him. He cannot understand.

He struggles to enunciate your name as he calls to you—uttering his first word.

“Mmmah! Mmmah! Maaamaaah!”

The stamping of hooves below you drown out Isaiah’s cries while you ride further on. Soon you are out of range, but you still hear his cries echoing in your ears. The sun sits high in the sky, miles above the horizon in front of you, and nearly blinds you with its light. After some time riding, you’re near the familiar topography that marks the camp. Anxiety rises in your chest at the thought of returning with empty arms.

Can you continue on without him? Can you go on, not knowing where you’ll be next? How long can you mindlessly follow the patriarch of your gang wherever he decides to go?

Can you bear to look at Arthur again? Will the regret of your mistakes ever subside if you remain near? 

Hosea notices your horse stopping behind him, as if your steed König could sense your hesitancy. With a gentle pull of his reins, Hosea turns his own horse towards you.

He doesn’t speak or ask questions; only waiting patiently and silently for you. 

“I need to be alone for a while,” you tell him, choking back sobs and staring down at König’s thick, black mane.

Hosea nods his head softly in understanding. He turns his head to watch the members of the gang pack up what’s left of the camp. They continue on as if unaware of your return. His amber eyes drop down before he defeatedly turns back to you. 

“Take all the time you need. We’ll pack up the rest.” He consoles.

With a squeeze of your legs, you lead König away until Hosea’s voice stops you. He speaks tenderly and with hesitation. As if to prevent the sound of his voice from cracking you further into shattered pieces. 

“(Y/N)?” He asks.

You silently look over your shoulder at him, seeing the hurt in his eyes that mirror yours.

“I’ve always thought of you as my daughter and...I’ll always be proud of you. No matter what.” He assures you. With a nod of his head and a tight-lipped smile, he permits you to go.

A hot tear slips from the corner of your eye and paints your cheek in a single streak, dripping down from your quivering chin. You blink your eyes slowly in a loving response, followed by a curt nod. 

The absence of words creates such a deafening silence between you two; only communicating further through your eyes, your brows, your downturned lips, and the slow, shallow breaths that rise and fall from your chests. 

With a turn of your steed, you nudge forward with Hosea and the camp behind you and the afternoon sun before you. 

König’s large strides lead you to a cliff’s edge overlooking the bay. It’s completely silent. The only sounds come from the gentle waves splashing against the rocks down below.

**  
You slide off König and walk to the edge. Your breaths are shallow and quick. The crisp sea air cuts your throat like jagged glass. The air expelled from your lungs slices through your teeth and you struggle to inhale. A vice grips at your heart, squeezing tighter and tighter as you struggle to draw in air.

Dropping to your knees, you claw at the ground, wheezing in a panic. It’s as if gravity has lost its protective hold on you and you’re lifting to the sky in a dreadful fright. The red dirt cakes under your fingernails and chips its fragile edges. You lean forward and drop your head to the warm dirt. Your forehead rests on both your hands, now clenched into fists. The arch of your back rises and falls unsteadily. You cannot hold back the agonizing grief that is torturing you from within.

Drawing your head closer to your body, you feel the open space around you closing in. Like a heavy, suffocating blanket wrapping around your tense body. The fibers of your clothes scratch against your skin like the prickles of a cactus and warms you in a feverish heat. 

The air reserved in your lungs is released into a harrowing scream. The tension rises in your skull as you let out the mournful wail until it can no longer be choked out of you.

A gasping inhale is drawn in and another wail escapes you, as if you’ve been impaled and the pain is unbearable. Head drawn to the sky, you look to the heavens and scream.

Perhaps to ask why.

Why was this commanded of you?

...

The space that marked camp is nearly bare. All that remains are the wagons, filled with essentials and minor valuables. Two covered wagons and a heavy carriage rest in an orderly line, each with a pair of oxen and horses waiting in their yokes. A few pallet boxes and a short table are left out in the dirt with no room for them to fit. 

Everyone waits for the return of Dutch and the boys. They sit patiently and chat amongst themselves in subtle tones, like a quiet congregation awaiting the priest. Their voices are laced with grief and sadness, no different than those in mourning. Each wagon is adorned with a single oil lamp, hanging off the edge or resting on an open space in the back. With the glass-covered flame inside them, the white canvas of the covered wagons glow dimly like large lamps as darkness begins to fall. 

Hosea sits on one of the boxes near the area that marks Arthur’s space. Facing the growing darkness with the light behind him, he rests his elbows on his knees, fiddling with a folded letter in his hands. He’s careful not to smudge the ink that was fresh just an hour ago. His fingers run against the pressed crease of the fold. He hasn’t opened it, and refuses to look inside. 

What’s the point in reading if he can already guess the words you have written? The pain and grief transfers from your soul to his through the dry ink on the paper. It permeates the parchment like a distant warmth from a fire on bare skin. He reads your words like a fortune teller reading a face-down card. He knows you well enough to predict what you’ve said. It was written on your face when you came back. 

Waiting in silence, Hosea thinks of what he should’ve done better. He should’ve stood by your side—not played neutral between you, Arthur and Dutch. He should’ve urged Arthur more towards your side. He should’ve made you turn around and walk right back in that office. Should’ve stopped you from going in the first place. Should’ve stood his ground with Dutch. Should’ve let Arthur go with you. Should’ve made you stay. 

Should’ve stopped you from packing your things and saying goodbye when you returned from your private moment. Should’ve torn up the letter in front of your face, prompting you to reconsider. 

_What would Bessie think of me?_ He wonders. _Oh, Bessie. I wish you were here._

The soft clanking of horseshoes against dry, rocky soil sound from behind the wagons. Hosea remains seated, slowly turning his head to look over his shoulder. He watches Dutch trot from the dark into camp with a pleased smile, with John and Arthur right behind him. It may be dark, but it appears the boys are not as pleased as him. 

_Another one of Dutch’s disappointing lectures, I assume._

Pearson slides off the back of a wagon, his feet planting heavily on the ground before approaching the trio. 

“Well, find anything?” He asks with optimistic hope, adjusting the waistband across his rotund belly. 

“Yes, Mr. Pearson. We have indeed.” Dutch responds in his usual confidence. He drops his reins and dismounts with a loud, tired sigh of relief. 

“There’s a settlement up near the Colorado border,” he continues, “Started during the gold rush and now it’s nothing but cattle ranchers looking for farm hands. Figured we’d make some easy money and get to know them a little bit.” 

Like a snake oil salesman hitting it lucky with a town full of old biddies, Dutch sneers in delight at the thought of new suckers to swindle. 

While Dutch talks of new opportunities and rich pursuits, Arthur scans the empty camp for any sign of you and Isaiah. He was half-tempted to leave Dutch and John behind and ride as quick as he can back to camp. Goosebumps rose high on his skin the entire ride back and they remain while he looks for you. He felt nervous during the ride back. A worry crept in the back of his mind all day and he just has to silence it. But once his eyes land on Hosea, it refuses to subside. 

Hosea turns in his seat, the folded letter in his hands. The stoic features are erased and replaced with weary eyes and a wrinkled frown that’s carved deep. 

“Where’s (Y/N)?” Arthur questions him. 

Hosea merely stands, straightening his back as he faces Arthur. Despite his tall stance, Hosea stands as if balancing a heavy weight on his shoulders. His shoulders are slouched and his chin is drawn low while his eyes stare ahead at Arthur. 

Without a word, he answers Arthur’s question by holding out the letter. His eyes remain fixed on Arthur’s features, watching his changed expression. 

Arthur’s lips part at the sight of the ivory paper, folded in half in Hosea’s outstretched hand. 

With a subtle shake of his head, Arthur asks desperately in a quiet voice, “Isaiah?” 

Again, Hosea remains silent with his lips pursed tightly in a thin line. His throat clicks with a dry, thick, and painful swallow. 

He stretches his arm further, offering the letter to Arthur. 

Arthur reluctantly accepts it, separating the fold with a single finger and opening the letter. He holds it up towards the light of the lanterns behind him to read. 

_Arthur,_

_After much consideration, I’ve made a decision.  
I’m sure you’re already aware. Isaiah will live his life with the Birners, where he will be educated, respected, and loved.  
I know it’s what you wanted and I realize now it’s what’s best.  
I am deeply sorry you couldn’t come with me to say goodbye. _

_I am also sorry that I cannot continue on with you.  
I must leave. I know I can’t stay here for long, or move with the gang. I fear the memories and the pain will be too much for me to bear. If I’m to give up Isaiah, then I must give up everything he was a part of. And I must go on my own.  
I have always loved you, Arthur. Please know that. I don’t regret the time we spent together and I hope you don’t either.  
Promise me you will follow your own path and won’t let anyone change you. _

_Don’t look for me. Don’t try to bring me back. This is for the best.  
I want you to forget about me, Arthur. It’d be easier that way. _

_Sincerely,_

_(Y/N)_

Your words leave a black mark on his heart. He stands there, conflicted on whether to crumple the letter in his hands or fold it back neatly. A stillness lingers for a moment as he rereads your words over and over. His eyes dart across the sentences, hoping to only misread what you’ve wrote as he analyzes every curl and strike of black ink. 

A final judgement is made as he tosses the letter to the ground. His vision blurs and the blood rushes in his veins like hot mercury. A thundering rush fills his ears with a sound similar to that of heavy feathered wings. 

Arthur turns and lunges forward. His legs sprint ahead of him in long strides towards his mare. There’s no time to waste, he thinks. 

She jolts in response and gives an abrupt squeal as Arthur grabs her reins and leaps onto the saddle. She struggles to calm while his weight lands on her back and she feels a quick pull in her mouth from the metal bit. Her head turns inward towards the source of a heel digging into her side. 

Hosea’s voice finally cuts through the air. 

“It’s too late, Arthur! She’s gone!”

Arthur’s horse blows a frustrated huff through her flared nostrils and stamps her hooves nervously against the dirt as she fights against his confusing cues. 

From his high perch on the saddle, Arthur turns to Hosea. He can barely see him through his warped vision. Spit flies from his bared teeth and hot tears threaten to drip from his eyes as Arthur yells.

“I should’ve known! I should’ve been there for them!” Arthur roars. 

His mare rears on her hind legs underneath him, nearly sliding him off the saddle. He jumps from her back and throws down the leather reins in an uncontrollable rage. 

His deep voice echoes through the darkness, while the members of the gang merely watch in shock. Hosea bravely steps forward to him, holding out his empty palms to calm the angry beast. He presses his hands against Arthur’s shoulders, attempting to still him. 

“It’s my fault!” Arthur continues, his voice hoarse and wheezy as he tries to hold back tears. He smacks Hosea’s hands away. 

“It ain’t your fault, Arthur!” Hosea tries to think of something to say. Something to do to cool Arthur’s temper, but he fears nothing will subside him from this relentless rage. He knows it’s futile to control him. This type of grief is too familiar to Hosea. While he reacted differently to his own loss, he understands Arthur’s response.

“Yes, it is! It’s all my fault! They’re gone ‘cause of _me_!” Arthur howls. He pushes Hosea forcefully with both arms, the palms of his hands smacking against Hosea’s vest. Hosea nearly stumbles backwards but regains his footing. 

This is the only way Arthur knows to react, and Hosea knows this. He knows Arthur’s anger isn’t directed towards him, but he needs the physical outlet. Hosea doesn’t attempt to stifle Arthur’s anger and fear. He knows if he takes another step forward, he could be met with a reaction that’s much more violent. 

Arthur grabs a nearby pallet box and brings it above his head. He smashes it against the ground before dropping to his knees. The flesh of his knuckles quickly grow mangled and bloody as he punches the planks of wood. The old wood splinters with every strike, cutting and scraping his hands. Arthur feels nothing.  
Grabbing the torn pieces of wood, he hurls them against the wagons, startling the horses. Pearson and Grimshaw flinch and draw themselves away. The splintered wood bounces off the sides of the wagons, nearly missing the fabric that could tear on the covered wagons. 

A third voice joins in with its booming resonance. 

“Arthur, that’s eno—” Dutch attempts to intervene.

“You stay outta this, Dutch! You’ve done enough!” Hosea interrupts. His high-pitched voice cracks as he points an enraged finger at him. Dutch freezes and his eyes grow wide in silent shock. 

The pair stare at each other until they notice Arthur stomping away. They watch as he steps out from the light of camp and into the night, wanting to be left alone. 

They wait for his return. However long it takes, they wait patiently. They sit and wait, eyes fixed in the direction he walked. They watch and listen for signs of his return: a snapped twig, a wet sniffle, or even a silent return towards the light of camp. 

For hours, they wait until he comes back. His eyes bloodshot and puffy and his pants dirty, he steps back into the light. His strides are slow and reluctant. His head is held low. Everyone watches him walk towards the wagon at the end of the line. They eye him as if seeing a ghost cross their path. 

He disappears behind the wagon, stepping up and setting himself down on an open spot in the back. He doesn’t acknowledge his brother who also hides in the back and is wiping his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. 

John startles at his approach and remains silent. 

_“I was here first,”_ he wants to say, waiting for Arthur to tell him to leave. However, John’s presence is ignored as Arthur sits in the cramped wagon, so John swallows his unspoken words. 

They sit side-by-side in mutual respect for one another, in silence as the wagon gently urges forward. 

Before long, their limbs become weak and exhausted. Their heads ache and their eyelids struggle to stay open. The grief tires them and they soon fall asleep, one following the other. 

John watches from the corner of his eyes. He watches Arthur’s head sway back and forth until he finally leans against the side of the wagon, succumbing to sleep. 

John waits a moment longer, fighting the exhaustion until following suit. He leans in Arthur’s direction, resting his head against Arthur’s arm and curling his legs behind him. 

It’s the only comfort he has left now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s the end of Part 1 of this two-part series!  
> Yes...there will be more. But not as heartbreaking as this, I promise. Maybe just a little bit.   
> I want to thank my amazing proof-readers for their help in finishing this, y’all are amazing and I love you! 
> 
> Drop your angry comments below because I know you’re fuming right now.


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